The closest people in my life have all lived a little. Or more than a little.
They've bled. They've had a death or two. They've fought. They've lost a loved one. They've struggled with depression or anxiety or bipolar disorder or addiction or abandonment. Something. Anything.
Humanity is flawed. And the people I love all live it and love it.
Sometimes, I forget that. And I get uptight. I start to act like perfection could actually be mine if I could just be good enough. I curl up and protect and stop being willing to make mistakes.
Hah! The three-part joke's on me.
A. Lack of mistakes is not an option for us humans.
B. When I behave as if it's an option I become someone I wouldn't pick for a friend.
C. What the hell would I want with a perfect boring life, anyways?