The Price of Perfection

The call came early. On a Tuesday morning. The sun barely peeking through the curtains of my apartment. The sounds of New York creeping in. It was her sister. Voice thin and brittle like a dried leaf crushed underfoot.

She’s in the hospital. And it’s serious.

And the world tilted on its axis.

I thought of the last time I saw her. My lifelong friend with the golden hair and the haunted eyes. We had lunch in the city. Picking at overpriced salads and sipping Chardonnay. The conversation drifted like smoke. She talked about the upcoming trip to Italy. The scheduled liposuction. The promise of a new beginning. I remember the flicker of doubt in her eyes. The air thick with the unspoken question hanging between us.

Will this make me happy? Finally.

She left for Italy the next day.

Could I have done more? The phone is heavy in my hand. Could I have been the voice of reason? The one who pulled her back from the brink. But I, too, am a product of this world. A woman shaped by the expectations of a society that tells us we are never enough. Never good enough. More to fix.

I think of the countless hours I’ve spent in front of the mirror. Scrutinizing every flaw, every imperfection. The endless quest for a beauty that always seems just out of reach. The diets, the workouts. I think of the women I know. My friends. Confessing their own secret battles with the beauty myth. The mothers who fear passing their insecurities on to their daughters.

What is it about our culture that makes us feel so inadequate? As women. That convinces us our value lies in the symmetry of our features. The flatness of our stomachs. The gap between our thighs. Why do we keep chasing an ideal that doesn’t exist? A mirage that disappears the moment we reach for it.

As I board the plane to be by her side, I feel a sense of clarity wash over me. I see the folly of our ways. The futility of our pursuit. We are fighting a losing battle in a war against ourselves. Against the very essence of what makes us human. Our differences.

I think of my friend lying in a hospital bed. Her body ravaged by the price of perfection. I think of the scars she will carry, both visible and invisible. The reminder of a society that told her she was not enough. And I vow to be the change. To use my voice and my words to shatter the illusion. To help other women see the beauty in what is defined as our imperfections.

Are we not all flawed? Are we not all broken in our own way? And yet, it is in those cracks the light shines through. Illuminating the truth of who we are. We are not meant to be perfect. To fit into a mold created by someone else’s desires. We are meant to be real, to be authentic. To embrace the messiness and the chaos of life.

As the plane touches down, I whisper a prayer for my friend. For all the women fighting this battle. For my battle. May we learn to love ourselves. May we see the beauty in our scars. And may we find the strength to be who we are, unapologetically and unabashedly.

For in the end, it is not the pursuit of perfection that will save us. But the courage to be imperfect in a world that demands otherwise.

*Authors note: This is a fictionalized version of a true story.