I'm Perfect, or Imperfect? 

There is nothing lonelier than the silence between what is and what is expected to be. For as long as I can remember, I’ve clung to the illusion of perfection, convincing myself it was enough. But a nagging sense of imperfection always lingered, like the “Storage Almost Full” notification that interrupts my attempts to take photos on my phone. Each notification feels like a subtle nudge to reflect on what I hold onto and what I let go of—thoughts that would later challenge how I define myself.

I remember the triumphant feeling after finishing the first draft of this essay, certain it was “perfect.” Eagerly, I took it to a former teacher, expecting praise. But her feedback was tough: Bland. Nothing about you. Could apply to anyone. Then she proceeded to pose questions that stopped me cold.

What was your biggest failure?

Who is the most important to you?

I found myself at a loss, unable to answer. My friend seated beside me answered her question, speaking casually about her own biggest failure, which was merely disappointing her parents. At that moment, memories flooded back to my heart. I remembered December of 2023. I recollected that same friend and how distant I’d grown from her. We had been so close yet so far, like Sunday and Monday: neighboring days, yet separated by a gulf of differences.

Throughout high school, our friendship had been genuine. It was solid and effortless, free from judgment or superficiality. But as I noticed the popular kids, the ones going to parties and filling their Instagram feeds with their adventures, I found myself wanting to be part of that world. My friend was never interested in that type of scene, and I began to look down on her simplicity and authenticity, dismissing what had once mattered so much.

When she ghosted me, I brushed it off, telling myself it was her issue, never admitting I was the one who had changed. Faster than I could even blink, I realized that my biggest regret was letting something so real and true fade away simply because I wanted to fit in. I now understood that my biggest failure was more than just a bad decision; it was a failure of character, a moment when I allowed myself to be swayed by superficial appeal over substance. That friendship was a grounding force for me, showing me the value of genuine connection. Though we eventually reconnected, I can never reclaim the time lost to my choices.

In time, I grew up and accepted that I wanted her back as my friend. Not just in name but as someone I truly valued. Faced with the choice of deleting hollow party photos versus keeping pictures that capture genuine laughter, I understood more clearly what mattered. Each deleted photo has become a small act of reclaiming my identity, a reminder to choose people who bring joy and meaning rather than the fleeting satisfaction of popularity. It’s taught me that authenticity takes courage—a willingness to be alone if it means staying true to yourself, even when it goes against the grain.

Now, I see that I don’t need to be “perfect,” at least not in the way I once thought. Like my phone’s storage, there’s a limit to what I can carry, but that’s not a flaw, it’s a strength. Knowing what to let go of, and what to hold close, has shown me that imperfection can be freeing. It’s about clarity, about choosing to capture moments and people that add depth to my life. So, in the end, I may not be “perfect,” but in learning to accept the imperfections, I’ve gained something far better: the freedom to live authentically, unburdened by the need to be anything but myself. Perfection, I’ve learned, is not a destination, but a weight I was never meant to carry.