embracing imperfection

Came to the realization that I don't have to be perfect...

These quirks of mine are not flaws to be mended,

but threads in the tapestry of who I am.

The kitchen must be clean before sleep claims me—

dishes nestled in their proper places,

counters gleaming in moonlight.

This is not disorder, but rhythm.

The ritual of showering before bed,

washing away the day's weight,

is not compulsion, but self-care.

A baptism of sorts.

My need to ensure everyone is fed—

watching faces light up over warm meals,

counting empty plates like answered prayers—

this is not obsession,

but the language of my nurturing soul.

The way I carry others' needs

like precious stones in my pocket,

is not anxiety disguised as attention,

but love wearing its most natural face.

These are not quirks to be fixed,

but gifts to be treasured.

Each one a constellation

in my particular sky.

Perfect was never the goal.

Authentic was always the journey.