Embracing Perfect Imperfections: How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love My Flaws

“Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius and it’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.” — Marilyn Monroe

Across the road from the Compound of Joy lies a beautiful watershed canyon where I regularly forest bathe. Hiking amongst the redwoods, bays, and pines, surrounded by lush ferns, and wild irises. Serenaded by an avian chorus hidden amongst the trees. Feeling the mist of Tannery Creek on my face.

187 acres of pure joy where once there were giants. Giants like the one above.

In all of this beautiful open space, only a single old-growth redwood tree remains.

The Twisted Sisters.

One tree that is really three. Three trunks wrapped around each other as if their mother braided them together into a giant plait that telescopes up to kiss and caress the sky.

A tree of three that still stands as a living testament to the power of imperfection.

A tree saved from the clear cut that took her peers and her elders because voracious loggers had no use for a curvy, contorted, misshapen tree.

Her perfect imperfections saved her. They are why I am blessed to bear witness to her and reflect on her powerful symbolism every time I hike.

For many, today’s Selfie Culture has left us squirming in the spotlight, obsessed with and desperate to “fix” our perceived flaws. Losing joy through comparisons in a never-ending sea of others we perceive as more perfect.

My discomfort with my imperfections predated the social mediocracy by several decades. For as long as I can remember, I felt self-conscious about my flaws and went to extreme lengths to hide them.

I grew up in an era of heroin-chic ectomorphs as a voluptuous, Rubenesque woman — looking like Jane Russell in a sea of Twiggys and feeling extremely self-conscious and self-critical about all the ways I didn’t look like other girls.

I hid my womanly teenage body under long-sleeved shirts at the beach.

I barely looked at myself in the mirror to avoid being reminded of all the ways I didn’t measure up to the unrealistic and unhealthy — for me, for most! — pinnacles of virtue and beauty I saw depicted on screens and magazines.

I spent most of my life focusing on all the ways I was ugly and flawed.

Then 12 years ago, my mother took the A Train to the spirit realm on Mother’s Day after a 20-year battle with depression and a lifelong war with herself.

A lifelong struggle with self-consciousness and self-criticism — insidious forms of self-harm less visible than cutting but far more destructive.

A lifelong battle to be perfect.

A conflict to which I had a front-row seat from birth.

Perfectionism killed her. The flaws she obsessively and desperately tried to hide from all who loved her grew too large and powerful for her to bear, extinguishing her light and her fight.

Her death woke me up and gave me new life. It catalyzed a complete shift in my perspective on perfection and sparked a 12-year and counting heroine’s journey to find joy within.

A journey of embracing and celebrating my perfect imperfections.

A journey of making the most of what I am instead of spending time obsessing about what I’m not.

A journey of finding peace with and in myself.

I was noticing the other day a series of Zoom calls how strange it feels to stare at my face in the screen for hours on end. I’ve spent so much of my life avoiding my own image that it’s unfamiliar and uncomfortable to sit and watch myself for long periods of uninterrupted time.

As I reflected on my own reflection and my feelings about it, I recognized that life was offering me another mindfulness practice in my (now) everyday experience of watching myself on video calls. An opportunity to be with, embrace, and celebrate what is.

To witness myself with love and compassion.

To have a sense of humor.

To see the joy and light in my own being.

I’m proud that at 54, I can honestly say that I have come to love and celebrate every inch of me. That when I look in the mirror or see my square in the Zoom gallery, I focus on what’s beautiful rather than what needs fixing.

The Twisted Sisters are a beautiful, living reminder of the value and power of my uniqueness — of all the ways I am different and not the same. They remind me to continually embrace and celebrate my perfect imperfections.

The Twisted Sisters are also a reminder that there is strength in numbers. That we are stronger together if we support one another than we are on our own. Recognizing and finding nourishment in the kinship that comes from seeing that we are all perfectly imperfect. Both beautifully the same and exquisitely different.

I am very much like the Twisted Sisters and feel a deep kinship with her.

I’m curvy, voluptuous, and perfectly imperfect.

I am stronger because of the souls I’m blessed to be intertwined with in this precious lifetime.

If you need help shifting perspective or need a partner in your journey of finding joy within, I’m here for you and always happy to be of service. Book a curious conversation with me to explore what the Vulnerability Doula can do for you!