Perfection is an interesting concept—difficult to attain, seemingly foolish to desire, yet something I have often strived toward. I hear ‘nobody’s perfect,’ but it’s hard to believe, especially considering that for much of my life, I was not often given the gift of being childish. I don’t mean this in a patronizing way, but as a woman who has been told (in a well-meaning way) that I am ‘mature for my age’ since high school.

My mother is stunning, still beautiful in her older years, but she’s not as soft-spoken as she once was. She has deep wrinkles beneath her eyes, evidence of a life that’s been through hell. Her hair, though, is frozen in the 80s, styled in an Elvis-like slick-back. I remember the day we found a place to live outside of her cream-stained Mazda. It wasn’t much—a small room at the end of a hallway. It had to fit my mom, my brother, my sister, and me.

“Mommy knows you’re upset; I’m upset too, so cry,” my mom said as my sister and I clung to each other in tears.

I’m not sure why we cried. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was uncertainty, or maybe it was just the overwhelming reality of the situation. But it was one of those moments that has always stuck with me, and I am reminded of whenever I watch “coming-of-age” films. I used to watch those movies and think how immature the main characters seemed when they struggled with something that, to me, felt so simple. But then I realized—maybe they weren’t being immature at all. They were just being kids.

It’s strange how those times can feel so frustrating in the moment—like how absent-minded my mom could be and how much stress that added to us as children. But now, looking back, I see that she was doing the best she could, and we were just surviving, doing the best we could too.

When I see my mom now, hunched over and frail, I don’t know what I feel. I know I love her, but in a way, I resent her for burdening me with the need to be strong. I stopped complaining or asking for help years ago, since it often never came. Perfection—or the illusion of it—has kept me stable.

“Why can’t you remember things for me? You know how stressed I am.”
“You have to think of a career where you can support your mom, too.”
“Why isn’t dinner ready, and why is the hallway such a mess?”

What I learned is that my needs are always secondary to others’, and my purpose became being the perfect hollow daughter. Perfection, however, is inhumane. It makes it difficult to know when to ask for help, and I struggle to relax or open up—even to the coolest people. Sometimes, I think I have to be perfect, so they won’t leave, just like when I was younger.

I’ve learned to rely on myself. It’s hard to trust others and even harder to let go of control. I’m praying to learn how to do this—so the next time I feel myself acting immature, I’ll allow it, wonder why I feel so childlike, and give myself the grace to not be perfect.

A random one today, but I’ll leave you this verse;

1 Peter 5:7 Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you.