I was never good at colouring inside the lines. I’d try so hard to be perfect, but somehow, it always spilled over. That pressure—constant, loud—followed me through life: to school, to work, into the mirror. I chased elegance, beauty, success, always feeling like I fell short. But slowly, I learned that perfection is a myth. I’ve made peace with messy lines, flawed skin, and stretch marks kissed instead of shamed. I’m not perfect—but I’m real. And that, I’ve come to believe,