The need for perfection still shows up in my body.
No matter how much inner work I do, that voice still tries to convince me I’m not ready to be seen yet.
If you’d rather watch, here’s the full video.
A few years ago, after an eight-show sold-out run of my Eva Cassidy tribute, I received a comment about my knees.
Not my voice.
Not the storytelling.
My knees.
It’s funny how one small comment can outweigh applause.
That’s what perfection does. It hunts for flaws. It ignores evidence. It makes you shrink.
For me, perfection shows up most strongly in my body.
It doesn’t bother me when I’m writing. It doesn’t show up when I’m coaching. It shows up when I turn on the camera or step onto a stage.
It goes straight to skin.
Several years ago, a friend and I were laughing about milestone birthdays and the small changes that come with age.
“My arms are crepey.”
“I have bat wings.”
“Should I start wearing cap sleeves or not care?”
We laughed.
But underneath that laughter was something deeper. The quiet inventory women take as they age.
What’s changed.
What’s softer.
What no longer looks 25.
And I found myself asking a different question.
What are my arms actually for?
They hug.
They hold groceries.
They’ve carried my children.
They hold a microphone.
If they were more toned, would I sing better? Would I love better?
No.
But perfection still whispers, fix this first. Wait until you look better. Wait until you feel confident.
Waiting has kept me quieter than any critic ever could.
This season, I’m letting go of two versions of myself.
The one I miss.
And the one I keep waiting for.
I keep thinking some future version will show up and feel finished. More toned. More confident. Less aware of lighting.
But this is the body that walks on stage.
This is the face that turns on the camera.
It’s wearing the sleeveless dress.
It’s hitting record.
It’s singing anyway.
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