The real reason I didn’t post
wasn’t because I had nothing to say.
Maybe it’s because I wanted it to be perfect.
As if this version of me
already knows
what the future me will call enough.
But what even is perfect?
We treat it like something ahead —
a place we’ll reach
where the wanting stops
and the noise finally settles.
Yet every time I thought I was close,
the shape of it shifted.
Not because I failed,
but because I changed.
Looking back, I’ve noticed things I once called finished
and felt something tighten inside me,
not regret,
just recognition.
I could see more now.
Not because the work was wrong,
but because I stayed
to become someone who notices differently.
So maybe that’s the quiet truth about perfection —
it doesn’t wait at the end,
and it doesn’t stay the same when you arrive.
It reveals itself while you’re in it.
While you remain.
While your hands learn
what your eyes couldn’t see before.
The more I stopped rushing toward “done,”
the more I realised
nothing was ever asking me to arrive.
Only to stay honest.
To stay present.
To let the work meet
who I am becoming.
Maybe perfection was never a final version.
Maybe it was this —
the moment you realise
you’re allowed to keep seeing,
keep adjusting,
keep walking.
And maybe the road itself
was never a delay.
Maybe it was the point.