Swipe Left On Perfection

I live a small life, on purpose.
Mornings chowing down protein
laundry half-folded on the chair, floor, bed
keys lost in the same old bag.

I am not a masterpiece of order,
I am a patchwork of “almost done”
and “I tried”
and “maybe tomorrow.”

Some days, the world is too loud
emails piling like storm clouds,
heart beating fast over nothing and everything.
I let it crest.
I let the wave come.
I whisper to myself,
You are allowed to feel this.

I close my eyes,
and instead of drowning,
I practice floating.
breathing in, breathing out,
letting my chest rise like a white flag of surrender
instead of a warning flare.

Grace is not clean.
Grace is shaking hands
that still reach for the glass of water.
Grace is tear-streaked cheeks
that still turn toward the sun.
Grace is saying,
“I’m overwhelmed,”
and not apologizing for it.

I am held together
by the people who love me messy.

Friends who don’t flinch
at my half-finished sentences,
who sit on the floor with me
amongst takeout boxes and tangled thoughts,
who laugh at the wrong moments
and make everything feel
a little less sharp.

They let me speak in fragments,
change the subject,
double back.
They understand that some stories
arrive out of order,
and some don’t want an ending yet.

And then there is him.

The boy with kind eyes
and the patience of a slow sunrise,
who listens to my pauses
as if they’re part of the song,
who holds my hand
like it’s a promise, not a question.

He does not iron out my sorrow,
does not rush the ache from my bones.
He knows grief isn’t linear,
that it leaves, then returns
with salt on its teeth
and memories between its waves.

On the days it comes back
wearing the faces of what I’ve lost,
he doesn’t build a dam.
He builds a shoreline.
He sits beside me in the quiet,
thumb tracing circles on my palm,
as if to say,
“I’m here for every version of you.”

When my voice cracks open
and the old hurt spills out,
he doesn’t offer quick fixes
or silver-lining speeches.
He offers presence.
He offers stillness.
He offers his shoulder
and the steady rhythm of his breath
like a metronome reminding me
my heart is still keeping time.

With him, I am allowed to be soft,
to unclench my jaw,
to stop rehearsing sentences
and simply let them fall.

He lets me listen
to my own needs,
to the quiet yes inside my chest,
to the parts of me that are learning
how to receive
without shrinking.

I don’t have to earn affection
by being perfect,
or predictable,
or perpetually “okay.”

Love, here, is not a test I study for.
It is a room with the lamp left on,
where I can come home late
with swollen eyes and tangled hair
and still be welcomed
with a soft, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Living simply doesn’t mean
my life is empty of storms.
It means I no longer pretend
to be made of stone.

It means burning the fancy candles
on ordinary Tuesdays,
answering texts late
without hating myself for it,
choosing gentle mornings
over relentless productivity.

It means letting my heart be
a lived-in place
scuffed floors,
open windows,
flowers that sometimes wilt
but somehow keep growing.

I am learning that wholeness
is not a polished, shining thing.
It’s the quiet courage
of waking up again,
of sitting with what hurts
without turning away,
of leaning into arms that say,
“Take your time.”

So I live my life in small, honest ways:
one deep breath,
one honest tear,
one hand held through the dark.

I am not done grieving,
not done healing,
not done becoming.

But in the middle of it all,
surrounded by friends who hold my chaos
and a love that honors my pace,
I find these soft, sacred moments

Ones where my heart loosens,
my shoulders drop,
and for a little while,
doing nothing more than existing
is more than enough.