perfect

Ever since I could remember, I have felt pressure to be perfect.

When I was little, my room was neat and clean, I did all my homework and was good at home. I worked out how to be perfectly likeable so that when we moved to another new country and I started at yet another new school, I would make friends.

When my mum was dying, I was completely out of my element. I didn’t know how to do it, let alone do it perfectly. I found myself holding it all in, making sure no-one could see just how much I was being affected by the slow demise of this once strong, vibrant woman.

She and I spent a week together just after she had been diagnosed. I was crippled by my inability to connect, fearing that if I did start talking about my soul-scorching fear, my perfect veneer would dissolve – and then what would happen? Who would I be?

A few months after we returned, my mum’s ravaged body finally let her down and she was forced into hospital. It was too much to bear. I broke, in slow motion: shards of hard.outside.shell splintering all that I knew.

Still, it echoes. Her gentle, soaked.with.love.response: Oh, A.

And there it was. Permission to be less than perfect and still be more than enough.