let them know i lived. let them see i lived well.

don't let perfection ruin a legacy

I promised I wouldn’t make this long because I have some writing to do on my next book. I can’t say that I was being honest with myself. But for my deadline’s sake, let’s pray.

Lord, please.

Amen.

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For weeks, I’ve been rewriting this very Substack article in my head every time I’m rearranging my perfume or lighting a candle for a big-light-less bubble bath or showering with Sex + the City peeking through the fog or coating my eyelashes with waterproof mascara that I won’t attempt to wipe off before sliding out of my mules that cost way too much and falling asleep on top of my comforter after a sickeningly good night.

I’ve attempted to let it go. I’ve attempted to talk myself out of posting it. I’ve erased it and written it again.

And again.

And again.

And, frankly, it all reads the same way, no matter how different the delivery. The message doesn’t change with every rewrite. The words do.

So, instead of writing it again in my head, I’m going to put it out into the atmosphere.

Perfection is ruining our legacy.

It’s ripping us of our memories. It’s pounding on our core. It’s ridiculing us. It has called us a freaking joke more times than either of us can remember.

Our pursuit of perfection is the forfeiting of our legacy. And, it’s making it hard for us to remember any time but the present or think of anything but our future.

It makes it easy for us to forget that there is a past. A past that helped us get to the place we are now. A past that is responsible for everything in our possession.

I vividly remember walking down my grandparents’ long hallway and entering a time capsule. One that told the history of every generation after them, and at least one before them.

There I was in the family picture. The smallest. The youngest. And there I was with a piece of rolled white paper in my hand, tied by a blue ribbon. My teeth were small. My smile was big. My eyes were bright. I was in Kindergarten. I still remember the first day.

I remember the picture of my aunt. The hairstylist. And, her work was on the heads of almost everyone in every picture surrounding her. She was really good with the entire styling thing during the cornroll, freeze, waterfall, and ponytail era. Those pictures remind me of waiting by the microwave and keeping a close eye on the plastic bowl containing the boiling water and the tracked hair that she’d be gluing onto someone’s hair soon.

Then, there was my other aunt and her children. Maybe her husband was in the picture, too. I’m not sure if my memory serves me correctly. That spot on the wall, like many others, is not the clearest.

Aside from images, preserved well and taken good care of, there were small trophies and possibly ribbons of some kind.

Underneath the mattress were even more images, the birth certificates of almost everyone in every picture on the walls, and diplomas of everyone who had graduated out of the house. Because back then, those accolades didn’t belong to the recipient. It belonged to the person who made the accomplishment possible.

Without actually living in those moments or being considered, I felt like I was part of them because I was handed an invitation at birth. I was granted access to their worlds instantly. I was promised their legacy without requesting it.

How?

Because it wasn’t perfection they were pursuing. It was proof.

And that is why I am writing this Substack.

Every time I wrote this article in my head, one sentence kept repeating itself.

“I want proof that I lived. And, proof that I lived well.”

Most people want the perfect home.

The perfect life.

The perfect partner.

The perfect kitchen.

The perfect child.

The perfect closet.

The perfect body.

The perfect job.

No work.

No sweat.

No hardships.

No hassles.

No mess.

Unfortunately, that’s not living. And that’s not living well.

My bathroom becomes the metaphor I never considered it to be when this thought occurs, and this idea revisits me.

Truth is…

Yes, I want my novels written well.

But I don’t want to miss the opportunity to write poorly before writing well. I don’t want to miss the chance to grow. I don’t want to crave the pages of my badly written manuscript to marvel at my progression and not have one to review.

What reality is that for a writer?

Feels like a sad, lonely one if I’m being honest. We need something to remind us of who we were and who we aren’t anymore and who we still are and who we are still striving to be.

Yes, I want my housekeeper to clean my home, but I don’t want her to leave it spotless.

I want traces of life to remain. I want the messy perfume collection. I want the mascara-stained countertop. I want the blackened candle wicks. I want the overused makeup sponges. I want the scuffed red polish on the bottoms of my shoes. I want the only pieces of costume jewelry that made it home with me in my jewelry box. I want the one earring that I refuse to get rid of, even though I’ll never find the other. I want my Rolex watches underneath the bed for weeks while I panic and wonder if one fell from my wrist while out. I want the water stain that makes me cringe at the sight of it, welcoming me to my sitting area every other day. I want the photos with my mouth wide and my eyes with creases at the corners. I want the printed images lying around places I visit most often. I want the latest book I’ve studied on the floor beside my bed.

I want the time capsule.

Because if God called me home today, and my children walked into my room after their hearts hurt a little less at the thought of my absence…

I want them to stop and smile at the thought of my life. I want them to understand that I wasn’t perfect. I want them to find solace in the fact that I never tried to be. I want them to be comforted knowing that I lived. I want them to be delighted seeing that I lived well.

I don’t want to ruin my legacy with white walls that don’t show signs of life. I don’t want my children to wonder how they looked as babies because their memories are all stored in a phone that I lost sixteen years ago. I don’t want to shut out the generations after me.

I don’t want perfection to ruin my legacy.

I want to print photos. I want to frame special pictures. I want to display the trophies and the ribbons. I want the diplomas underneath my mattress. I want to share generational growth.

I want to invite my children into my time capsule. I want to invite their children. I want to invite their children.

I don’t want to replace my family’s history with abstract art because the internet says that’s what the most sought-after interior designers say we should do.

I don’t want all of my perfume in a cool, dry place because I need it most when I’m in the bathroom… so I can layer as I get ready. I don’t want the squeaky clean space without signs of life.

That feels too much like a house.

I want a home. I want a home that is lived in. I want a home that is lived in well.

xo,

grey