I hate the word perfect.
When I was younger, people used to say it like it was a compliment.
“You’re so perfect, Rika. You’re quiet, neat and good.”
They thought I didn’t notice the way their voices sounded more relieved than proud.
Perfect didn’t mean I was special, it just meant I was easy.
So I tried harder, I drew straighter lines, got cleaner grades and kept my room spotless.
I thought maybe if I kept stacking up all these little “perfects,” one day someone would actually see me.
But no matter how much I gave, it was never enough.
The word turned into a wall, trapping me in a version of myself I didn’t even like.
Now, when I hear it, I feel hollow... Perfect is empty and lifeless like a painting without brushstrokes or song without mistakes.
It’s not real.
So I don’t chase perfection anymore, instead I chase myself.
I hold myself up against yesterday’s version of me and try to go further.
Not to impress anyone, not to be “Perfect,” but to prove to myself that I exist.
I don’t want perfection, I want complete.
Because complete means the rough edges, the flaws and the cracks stay.
It feels whole... more human, which is better than perfect could ever be.
Journal Prompts
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When has being called “perfect” felt more like pressure than praise?
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Whose standards have you been chasing instead of your own?
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What would “complete” look like for you?
If you want to learn more about Rika you can join The Parris Post here where we unfold the entires families story one chapter at a time.
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