I certainly am not the best at embracing my imperfections; but perhaps it truly is what it means to be human.
You know those childhood memories that are burned so deep you can remember the shirt you were wearing, or the way the grass smelled? I’ve got a few: The Time I Fell Off My Bike Riding With No Hands; The Time I Couldn’t Keep My Balance On The Rope Tow And All The Skiers Stared.
But there’s a particularly unremarkable one that’s always haunted me. I was in the first grade, and we were making collages of cut-out magazine pictures to accompany the story we were reading. Except I wasn’t cutting anything out—I was just sitting there, vetoing every picture I came across. Nothing was good enough. Nothing lived up to the perfect collage in my head.
While everyone else shared theirs with the class, I just sat there, empty-paged and ashamed. I wanted to hide.
Two decades later, I was still hiding. It was 2008, and I was fumbling my…
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