Here I am writing my second blog post in a week. My website, my fingers, myself—we’ve all gone into shock over the whole thing. But even though I’m not normally much of a talker, I felt the need to write once again.
Last week I got a little honest with you on here. Nothing earth-shattering and I kept the details vague, but I opened up more than I usually do. And then afterward, I got hit with this question more than once:
You’re known as a happy girl. Aren’t you worried about what people will think?
So here’s my answer to the question: No I’m not. Not at all.
I am not perfect. Nor do I have any desire to appear perfect.
It’s true that I am an upbeat person. I love life and new experiences and intimate connections and people…having a special fondness for people who make me laugh, no matter how long I’ve known them. I’ve known my best friend for less than three years—she makes me laugh on a daily basis. One of my favorite people in the world has been making me laugh for over a decade. An online friend makes me laugh any time I look up a recent tweet or we chat over Facebook messenger—and we’ve never even met in person. But they all get this about me: a life without laughter is no fun at all. Which makes it especially jarring when you find yourself going without it for what felt like an extremely long twelve months.
But I’m not perfect. And acting perfect doesn’t do anyone any favors.
Perfect doesn’t invite compassion. Perfect doesn’t invite fellowship. Perfect doesn’t help anyone open up. Perfect doesn’t invite commonality. Perfect doesn’t invite acceptance. Perfect doesn’t make anyone feel welcome.
In fact, perfect does the opposite.
It invites comparison. It invites envy. It invites self-doubt. It invites anxiety. It invites a blanket of darkness to cover what otherwise might be a very bright life.
So I don’t do perfect. And—at least when you’re around me or talking to me or emailing me or texting me–I really hope you never feel the need to do perfect either. I am what I am. It is what it is. I’m here, you’re here, and more than anything, I want that to be enough for both of us.
The way I see it is this: We only have one shot at life, and the thought of living in such a way that results in no one ever actually knowing me seems more depressing than anything. So even though I am a very private person and have only opened up to a very small number of people, every once in a while my true nature might appear on here. And the truth of it is—the real Amy struggles. The real Amy doubts. The real Amy is not always confident…not always happy. The real Amy cries. The real Amy loves hard—sometimes too hard. Then again, if given a choice between loving excessively or living out life numb and unfeeling—I’ll always choose to love. Real love. Fierce love. Painful love. But in my opinion—real, fierce, and painful love is a million times better than no love at all.
So there you have it.
I’m not perfect, and I like imperfect people.
So go ahead and throw your imperfectly perfect self out there for the world to see. I welcome you, I applaud you, I stand beside you. And I guarantee that I, for one, will like you even more for it.