“Seriously? I can't even read that!” My father's eyes quickly shifted, glancing at my work, then at me, and back to my work in sheer disappointment. The silence of the dining room was interrupted by the cacophony of rubbish sounds of my eraser stroking against my work and the occasional "Nnnhhhhfffffss" while I began to cry. As the friction from the eraser and the moisture from my tears began fusing, leaving holes in my work, I sat there distraught. The abrupt noises continued bouncing off the walls of my empty dining room while my parents argued about their divorce. Rewriting Mrs. Hsiung’s fourth-grade multiplication worksheet seemed like a catastrophic event, and it was. It prompted me to start taking pride in my work and completing my assignments to the best of my ability. I did not realize this cultivated the route of my perfectionism, as from here on out, I placed all my value into my handwriting and strived for only the best. Growing up as a boy with neat penmanship was rare, so it gained a lot of attention as many of my peers began comparing them side-by-side, yet I did not care about the comparison but was still distraught by my dad's lack of satisfaction. Beating myself up over being deemed a disappointment, I made it a priority to become the perfect son. However, I did not think that it would further affect me down the road. These toxic traits, from tendencies to habits, became a substructure of who I thought I was. In any instance of competition or comparison, I shot high, reached for number one, and almost always obtained that pedestal and threshold of what I sought as ideal. After many years of seeking more, I became my internal critic about reaching the line of perfection, but oblivious to seeing that I was also sitting just short of the line of failure. Constantly pushing myself to my limits, partaking in anything I could, I somehow pulled off for many years. Throughout efforts to create such a well-rounded reputation at school, I silenced my emotions and continued striving for perfection. My emotions ran high, and I struggled until I finally crossed that line, and after years of blinding from personal accomplishments, I failed. For the first time in my life, I hit my breaking point. I was fifteen years old, hovering over the toilet to regurgitate the sizable amount of pills I had just consumed. Hitting rock bottom was devastating, as I was not immune to failure. Oddly enough, I was not phased by my actions but instead concerned about the image it would project. In prompt for change, it took months of recovery and realization to shift the idea of failure from inadequacy to something valuable. What I once defined as failure, I saw in myself.  Fast forward nearly three years later, slowly eradicated, both the tendencies and habits began to slip from the standards I once held for myself. I now embrace the idea of failure and make it my priority to help others find value within their possession. Though I continually develop faults, I have realized that those faults become the adhesive in building perfection. Strangely enough, I now find myself resembling the worksheet I once cried over. Although failing leaves imprints on both the paper and myself, I have learned that those scars add character to who I am. Much like the paper, I have also acquired the skill to deafen outside noise when furthering my goals. I’ve come to comprehend that failure is necessary to become the best version of myself.

“Seriously? I can't even read that!” My father's eyes quickly shifted, glancing at my work, then at me, and back to my work in sheer disappointment. The silence of the dining room was interrupted by the cacophony of rubbish sounds of my eraser stroking against my work and the occasional "Nnnhhhhfffffss" while I began to cry. As the friction from the eraser and the moisture from my tears began fusing, leaving holes in my work, I sat there distraught. The abrupt noises continued bouncing off the walls of my empty dining room while my parents argued about their divorce. Rewriting Mrs. Hsiung’s fourth-grade multiplication worksheet seemed like a catastrophic event, and it was. It prompted me to start taking pride in my work and completing my assignments to the best of my ability. I did not realize this cultivated the route of my perfectionism, as from here on out, I placed all my value into my handwriting and strived for only the best. Growing up as a boy with neat penmanship was rare, so it gained a lot of attention as many of my peers began comparing them side-by-side, yet I did not care about the comparison but was still distraught by my dad's lack of satisfaction. Beating myself up over being deemed a disappointment, I made it a priority to become the perfect son. However, I did not think that it would further affect me down the road. These toxic traits, from tendencies to habits, became a substructure of who I thought I was. In any instance of competition or comparison, I shot high, reached for number one, and almost always obtained that pedestal and threshold of what I sought as ideal. After many years of seeking more, I became my internal critic about reaching the line of perfection, but oblivious to seeing that I was also sitting just short of the line of failure. Constantly pushing myself to my limits, partaking in anything I could, I somehow pulled off for many years. Throughout efforts to create such a well-rounded reputation at school, I silenced my emotions and continued striving for perfection. My emotions ran high, and I struggled until I finally crossed that line, and after years of blinding from personal accomplishments, I failed. For the first time in my life, I hit my breaking point. I was fifteen years old, hovering over the toilet to regurgitate the sizable amount of pills I had just consumed. Hitting rock bottom was devastating, as I was not immune to failure. Oddly enough, I was not phased by my actions but instead concerned about the image it would project. In prompt for change, it took months of recovery and realization to shift the idea of failure from inadequacy to something valuable. What I once defined as failure, I saw in myself.  Fast forward nearly three years later, slowly eradicated, both the tendencies and habits began to slip from the standards I once held for myself. I now embrace the idea of failure and make it my priority to help others find value within their possession. Though I continually develop faults, I have realized that those faults become the adhesive in building perfection. Strangely enough, I now find myself resembling the worksheet I once cried over. Although failing leaves imprints on both the paper and myself, I have learned that those scars add character to who I am. Much like the paper, I have also acquired the skill to deafen outside noise when furthering my goals. I’ve come to comprehend that failure is necessary to become the best version of myself.

“Seriously? I can't even read that!” My father's eyes quickly shifted, glancing at my work, then at me, and back to my work in sheer disappointment. The silence of the dining room was interrupted by the cacophony of rubbish sounds of my eraser stroking against my work and the occasional "Nnnhhhhfffffss" while I began to cry. As the friction from the eraser and the moisture from my tears began fusing, leaving holes in my work, I sat there distraught. The abrupt noises continued bouncing off the walls of my empty dining room while my parents argued about their divorce. Rewriting Mrs. Hsiung’s fourth-grade multiplication worksheet seemed like a catastrophic event, and it was. It prompted me to start taking pride in my work and completing my assignments to the best of my ability. I did not realize this cultivated the route of my perfectionism, as from here on out, I placed all my value into my handwriting and strived for only the best. Growing up as a boy with neat penmanship was rare, so it gained a lot of attention as many of my peers began comparing them side-by-side, yet I did not care about the comparison but was still distraught by my dad's lack of satisfaction. Beating myself up over being deemed a disappointment, I made it a priority to become the perfect son. However, I did not think that it would further affect me down the road. These toxic traits, from tendencies to habits, became a substructure of who I thought I was. In any instance of competition or comparison, I shot high, reached for number one, and almost always obtained that pedestal and threshold of what I sought as ideal. After many years of seeking more, I became my internal critic about reaching the line of perfection, but oblivious to seeing that I was also sitting just short of the line of failure. Constantly pushing myself to my limits, partaking in anything I could, I somehow pulled off for many years. Throughout efforts to create such a well-rounded reputation at school, I silenced my emotions and continued striving for perfection. My emotions ran high, and I struggled until I finally crossed that line, and after years of blinding from personal accomplishments, I failed. For the first time in my life, I hit my breaking point. I was fifteen years old, hovering over the toilet to regurgitate the sizable amount of pills I had just consumed. Hitting rock bottom was devastating, as I was not immune to failure. Oddly enough, I was not phased by my actions but instead concerned about the image it would project. In prompt for change, it took months of recovery and realization to shift the idea of failure from inadequacy to something valuable. What I once defined as failure, I saw in myself.  Fast forward nearly three years later, slowly eradicated, both the tendencies and habits began to slip from the standards I once held for myself. I now embrace the idea of failure and make it my priority to help others find value within their possession. Though I continually develop faults, I have realized that those faults become the adhesive in building perfection. Strangely enough, I now find myself resembling the worksheet I once cried over. Although failing leaves imprints on both the paper and myself, I have learned that those scars add character to who I am. Much like the paper, I have also acquired the skill to deafen outside noise when furthering my goals. I’ve come to comprehend that failure is necessary to become the best version of myself.

“Seriously? I can't even read that!” My father's eyes quickly shifted, glancing at my work, then at me, and back to my work in sheer disappointment. The silence of the dining room was interrupted by the cacophony of rubbish sounds of my eraser stroking against my work and the occasional "Nnnhhhhfffffss" while I began to cry. As the friction from the eraser and the moisture from my tears began fusing, leaving holes in my work, I sat there distraught. The abrupt noises continued bouncing off the walls of my empty dining room while my parents argued about their divorce. Rewriting Mrs. Hsiung’s fourth-grade multiplication worksheet seemed like a catastrophic event, and it was. It prompted me to start taking pride in my work and completing my assignments to the best of my ability. I did not realize this cultivated the route of my perfectionism, as from here on out, I placed all my value into my handwriting and strived for only the best. Growing up as a boy with neat penmanship was rare, so it gained a lot of attention as many of my peers began comparing them side-by-side, yet I did not care about the comparison but was still distraught by my dad's lack of satisfaction. Beating myself up over being deemed a disappointment, I made it a priority to become the perfect son. However, I did not think that it would further affect me down the road. These toxic traits, from tendencies to habits, became a substructure of who I thought I was. In any instance of competition or comparison, I shot high, reached for number one, and almost always obtained that pedestal and threshold of what I sought as ideal. After many years of seeking more, I became my internal critic about reaching the line of perfection, but oblivious to seeing that I was also sitting just short of the line of failure. Constantly pushing myself to my limits, partaking in anything I could, I somehow pulled off for many years. Throughout efforts to create such a well-rounded reputation at school, I silenced my emotions and continued striving for perfection. My emotions ran high, and I struggled until I finally crossed that line, and after years of blinding from personal accomplishments, I failed. For the first time in my life, I hit my breaking point. I was fifteen years old, hovering over the toilet to regurgitate the sizable amount of pills I had just consumed. Hitting rock bottom was devastating, as I was not immune to failure. Oddly enough, I was not phased by my actions but instead concerned about the image it would project. In prompt for change, it took months of recovery and realization to shift the idea of failure from inadequacy to something valuable. What I once defined as failure, I saw in myself.  Fast forward nearly three years later, slowly eradicated, both the tendencies and habits began to slip from the standards I once held for myself. I now embrace the idea of failure and make it my priority to help others find value within their possession. Though I continually develop faults, I have realized that those faults become the adhesive in building perfection. Strangely enough, I now find myself resembling the worksheet I once cried over. Although failing leaves imprints on both the paper and myself, I have learned that those scars add character to who I am. Much like the paper, I have also acquired the skill to deafen outside noise when furthering my goals. I’ve come to comprehend that failure is necessary to become the best version of myself.