I used to think that I had to please everyone.
I would set this inhuman standard for myself.
This standard of being perfect,
Where I shed tears when I got a bad grade,
Where I seemed to carry the weight of the world on my shoulders when I made a mistake.
Where a trip on the sidewalk felt like a trip off a cliff.
Where a broken nail felt like a broken heart.
Where disappointing my family seemed like the end all.
And it took me a while to realize that I couldn’t rush to save every cat in a tree.
That I didn’t need to cry when my cape got ripped.
That tight bodysuits aren’t always flattering.
That sometimes the villain wins.
That there is no way to be perfect.
Because I am not the one who put the moon and the stars in the sky.
I am not the one who set the universe in motion.
I am me,
And that is all I can be.
Some days I can’t see that.
Some days I look at that dusty old cape and think about trying it on.
Some days I wonder what’s the point of raising your hand if you might get the answer wrong.
And some days I walk into a room filled with people and stand in the corner.
Other days, though, when I wake up in the morning and smile at the reflection in the mirror.
Or when I fail at something and think, ‘maybe next time’.
Or when I do something just to please myself.
Or I help the people I can and they appreciate it.
Those are the days where I see my progress.
Those are the days where I feel as though I am floating in the air.
Those are the days where the sun seems to kiss my cheeks with warmth.
Those are the day when I am happiest.
Those are the days when I am the most imperfect.