I want to be able to embrace the glorious mess that I am. I’ve been hard on myself for so long—chasing perfection, worrying about practically everything, constantly second-guessing. But maybe it’s time to stop, to just let go, and accept that I am a handful of contradictions, like a collection of bats flying around in the night—creepy to some, but strangely fascinating and full of energy if you look close enough. There’s a beauty in that messiness, in the parts of me that don’t quite fit together but somehow create something whole. I need to remember that not everything needs to be polished and perfect to be worthy.
It’s scary to think about loosening my grip on control, but maybe the imperfections, the chaos, are what make me... me.