I read a lot. In particular, I read a lot about how I can be better. A better parent, a better writer, a better human.
Whilst I know I can never be perfect, there’s a small but maniacal part of my ego that refuses to let go of the belief that if I just work hard enough, perfection can be mine.
I’d like to petition the Oxford English dictionary to redefine perfectionism as an illusion of the human mind: a thing of fantasy that should not under any circumstances be pursued, or at least to carry a warning label advising, ‘side effects of intense frustration and self-doubt, if pursued.’
Whilst I believe growth as a person is achievable and a fundamental part of life (why are we here if not to love, learn and grow?) an over-emphasis on achieving a certain level of growth (usually the Instagram worthy kind) is fraught with black holes just waiting for the unsuspecting personal development junkie (me) to fall down.
Every day we’re bombarded with images, stories and content about the ‘right’ way to do things, or the ‘secret’ to whatever it is we feel we’re lacking. I should know, I’ve been writing about it for months.
I feel like I’m always searching for the path to contentment, and there have been many times when I’ve been sure I have found it. But no sooner have my feelings of elation bloomed than something inevitably goes wrong and elation turns to deflation, as the balloon of my excitement is rudely burst by that recurring annoyance that is life.
Yep, life, and all its pesky frustrations, annoyances and problems, honed to a point and always waiting to pop my unsuspecting bubble of joy. Yet could there be any joy without sadness? Could there be contentment without discontent? Peace without conflict? A Ying needs a Yang, after all.
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