Being perfect that’s the nightmare I’ve been living in. I had to be perfect, good at everything. I sacrificed myself to meet those stupid, unrealistic expectations. There was a time I went crazy. I stopped sleeping, eating, talking because I thought it was all a waste of time. I bit myself whenever my body begged for rest. I covered my unstable, breaking soul with hard work and endless tasks. I kept myself busy, just to silence my screaming inner child. I felt numb, a body without feelings. But still, I wanted to be perfect, no matter what it costs. But I was too tired. I couldn’t keep my head up anymore. I couldn’t keep going. I needed to change something. I needed to let the perfection go. To make myself happier. To free myself. It was so hard at first. I felt like nothing, like I didn’t belong anywhere. “You’re good for nothing,” I kept repeating to myself. But then I realized all this time, I was chasing something that had no meaning, something that was slowly killing me. Now the war is over. And I'm not trying to be perfect anymore Even the word itself sounds disgusting to me now. I'm not perfect. And I’m proud of it. I’m proud of this imperfect version of me, the one who found a spark, a reason to get up every day. Being perfect means silencing some part of yourself. Being perfect means being unreal. And trust me, you don't need to be perfect to be loved. Imperfect but real sounds so much better than perfect ever could.