It was just another chaotic afternoon when my lively 2-year-old, Lily, dashed around the corner while her dad chased her, squealing, “No, daddy, don’t catch me!” In her excitement, she zoomed through the dining room and collided with the kitchen island, producing a sound that sent a jolt of fear through me.
I rushed to her side as she screamed, waiting for the expected bump on her head, only to discover her hair was matted with blood. Panic surged through me, mixed with anger toward my husband for letting this happen, and guilt washed over me — after all, I could have been the one chasing her.
In the end, Lily needed two staples in her head. But more than the physical injury, there was an emotional moment that demanded my attention. I found myself thinking that she was somehow damaged because of a scar. I remembered feeling the same dismay when I picked her up from preschool and learned about her chipped tooth. “She’s not perfect anymore,” I thought, surprised by my own internal dialogue.
As I reflected on this, I couldn’t help but notice my own imperfections. My body bears the marks of life — freckles that might be sun damage, stretch marks from puberty, scars from surgeries, and tattoos that tell stories of self-exploration and personal battles. Each imperfection is a chapter in my life, illustrating my resilience and experiences.
I grew up in the sun-drenched beauty of New Zealand, where the ozone layer is thin. My body’s changes through puberty, along with the aftermath of multiple surgeries, have left marks that tell my story. These are not just flaws; they are reminders of my strength and survival.
What I know for sure is that Lily is, and will always be, perfectly imperfect. My fleeting thought that she was damaged was just that — fleeting. Her worth remains unchanged in my heart, and she carries a confidence that I admire. Yet, my own feelings of inadequacy cling to me, lingering longer than I’d like.
Loving my daughter has taught me invaluable lessons, and I aspire to extend that same love to myself. I believe that we are all worthy simply because we exist. As I grow into my own identity as a woman, I’ve come to appreciate imperfections and the stories they tell. Sharing our scars and experiences is something we, especially women, excel at when we recognize their true value.
We are not broken; we are beautifully imperfect, just as we should be. Embracing this truth is a journey worth taking.
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In summary, our imperfections are not detriments; they are the unique narratives of our lives, shaping who we are and how we connect with others.