The Death of Perfection
“I would, but I’m really not good enough yet.”
The words came from a friend, one of the most talented creators I know, as they twisted an application in their hands. It’s a job application, for a company that would benefit from the talent and experience this friend has to offer. But, like every artist since the dawn of time, they saw that their work was not perfect. It had flaws. There was growth that needed to happen. Who would hire someone who still had room to improve?
They didn’t submit the application. They got an office job, something they could tolerate.
The world lost another artist.
In 2020, I decided I wanted to go to law school. It was something I’ve wanted to do my entire life. I’ve been enthralled with and disgusted by the gears of the United States legal system since I was a child. I wanted to get my hands dirty. In my free time, between two jobs and various boards and committees, I studied for the LSAT. I ended up getting a score in a range that granted me free rides into both of my preferred schools - the dean of one called me to tell me how much my personal essay stood out to them. I was so excited.
As the weeks neared the deadline where I would have to choose to commit to a school, my confidence wavered. What if I struggled in classes? What if, even with full rides, I would find myself deep in debt upon graduation? What if I wasn’t a good lawyer? What if I hated it? What if I tried and never made a difference? What if moving to another state for school put strain on my new marriage?
The week came when I had to choose. I emailed both schools and let them know I was withdrawing my application. I thanked them for their offers, telling myself I was doing them a favor. That I’d fooled them into thinking I was a safe bet, but I wasn’t.
It wasn’t the right time. I should have done it right after my undergraduate. I should have gotten more involved with Model UN in highschool. I should have focused my undergrad on poli-sci. I should have cared more about my grades, then maybe I could have gotten into Columbia. I should have, should have, should have.
My life became a graveyard of fascinations and dreams I crushed before they had the opportunity to be crushed by someone else. I could not commit to the risk, I could not commit to myself. I would daydream about what my life would be like if I had done the things I thought about. If I had been good enough, committed enough, talented enough to make a living writing novels, selling art, running for office, working pro bono in the courtroom - oh that life would have been great.
No more.
Early this year, as I told John, balking, that another person had asked to commission some of my art, he snapped at me. “I told you, the only person who thinks you’re not good enough is you.” It’s not that it was the first time he’s said it to me (and I’m certain it won’t be the last), but this time something shifted. Maybe it was the door closing on my 20’s and all of the things I didn’t allow myself to truly even try to do. Maybe it was realizing that I have spent my entire life mourning over a graveyard of my own creation, knowing one day I would be buried alongside all of my inchoate dreams.
I may find, in my death, that I am surrounded by my failures. But let them be blossomed. Let them be engraved with the signature of my optimism and my courage, not smothered in the womb for fear of their ugliness.
The opposite of success is not failure. It is quitting.
The death of success rides on the shoulders of perfection. I know you, sweet reader, have disallowed yourself joys and risks for no reason but the staying hand of perfectionism. Because you are not perfect. You are filled and built with just as many flaws as every thing living and dead that this world has ever seen. Filled with flaws that could spell failure. In fact, you will fail, at one point or another. Failure is a mechanism we all must endure. It is a side effect of effort. No rider learns the bike without falling, no artist sculpts a beautiful face without first molding inhuman ghouls.
The opposite of success is not failure. It is quitting. It is allowing failure to be the end of the story - it is letting that desire for perfection crush opportunities as they peek their soft buds through the soil.
Do the thing. Do it terribly. Be flawed and fucked up and fail and try again and try again and try again. Be honest about it. Share your ugly creations, your mud caked garden, your broken pottery, your paint covered hands. Let the world laugh at you, laugh with them. Laugh at yourself.
Let this be the year perfection dies. Let this be the year you start showing yourself the compassion you feel for your friends, the ones who don’t see that they are good enough, even while you know that they are.
Do it with me. This page will not be a draft I hold onto, waiting for the right rephrase or edit to make it perfect. I’m going to finish typing, I’m going hit publish, and then I’m going for a walk, happy that I did the thing, even if I did it badly.
Join me in the glorious realm of imperfection. Let yourself live, embrace your clumsy humanity, enjoy the yin and the yang, and remember, darling dirtlings, it’s never too late to fail.
Stay dirty.
-E
