I wasn’t always a perfectionist; in fact, I was far from it. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to the world of art. While my classmates dissected rabbit hearts and braved snowy soccer practices, I found joy in art's limitless creativity. Each stroke and shade brought temporary stability in a life full of uncertainties. Thin and thick lines, sharp and blurry edges, rough and smooth textures—my hand danced across the blank pages of my Russian class notebooks. In those moments, time stood still. Having lived in four countries by the time I was seven years old, stability was a luxury. I envied the seemingly settled lives of my friends with framed photos documenting milestones like Little League Baseball and kindergarten graduations. Their ability to effortlessly meet societal norms felt unattainable to me, yet I believed that if I were perfect like them, I could find the same security and belonging. Driven by a fear of falling short of these norms, I held onto an idealized image of how outstanding I needed to be, both as a normal person and an artist, in order to cover up my incomplete childhood. I convinced myself that pleasing everyone would protect me from shame and judgment. These perfectionistic habits that I developed eventually withered my joy in creating. I used to blame my family’s financial instability for holding me back. During the five years we lived in Kyrgyzstan, where I struggled even to pronounce the name, I could only dream of moving out of our cramped apartment and having my own space to experiment with art mediums. In the winter, my parents would craft a small 2D Christmas tree from green paper because buying one was beyond our means. Though they did their best under challenging circumstances, I felt frustrated with them. But what I once saw as an embarrassing memory became the very experience that shaped me the most. Their resourcefulness taught me that warmth and creativity can be found in the simplest of things. Learning this allowed me to explore fearlessly in limiting environments, pushing me to develop a style that was born out of my personal experiences. As I found strength in adversity, I also began to unravel the tangled thread of perfectionism. One night, listening to the sound of crickets outside my window, I stared at another unfinished art project. I sat on the carpet, reflecting on how my fear of imperfection overshadowed my joy in creating. The desire to become someone I’m not had drained me, this endless cycle of tearing canvases and starting from scratch. Deep within, I yearned for change. I pulled out art supplies that were tucked away deep in my drawer. I discovered a renewed purpose: to embrace imperfect beauty. Now, I break the old habits by attempting mediums that felt off-limits and resisting the urge to tear out sketchbook pages at the slightest mistake. I no longer start over; instead, I add more “mistakes,” marking my self-acceptance. As I gaze at the imperfections I once rejected, relief washes over me like cold water. Through my effort to let go of perfectionism, I’ve come to realize that true fulfillment isn’t found in chasing ideals. Whether it’s pursuing flawlessness or seeking to impress others, striving for an unrealistic self-image only leads to dissatisfaction and criticism. Real contentment comes from the ongoing process of creating, in spite of uncertainties and imperfections. I am far from perfect, and I am once again free in the boundless realm of art.