What does success look like? If we look at traditional metrics of accomplishment – perfect relationship, Ivy League education, spotless resume – I’m a failure.
But what if perfection wasn’t the point? What if we are alive, not to succeed, but to learn? What if the point is not to find glory, but to find ourselves? What if there is no single finish line to measure ourselves against, but rather the dotted line of personal progress as we stumble imperfectly forward?
I am perpetually awkward, I cannot make a relationship last longer than a year, and my mouth is my foot’s second home. Men are not supposed to be vulnerable, but I’m tired of pretending.
I’m a fuck up. And that’s okay.