My face is shrouded in shadow, my t-shirt is wrinkled, I hate the way my hair looks, and you can see the bandaid on my hand. My most frequent collaborator, Jerran, hates that I am this critical of myself. He travels to my house on his off day–personal time that should be spent reading or lying on the couch in central air–to take my photos. If he shows up and I’m not dressed he waits patiently for me to paint on the last coat of lipstick or decide on the perfect piece to complete a look. He stands in the sun holding the heavy DSLR, taking my demanding directions. “Up! Up! Hold the camera up! Angles matter!” I shout out at him as teenagers in baggy jeans and dread locs eye us inquisitively on their walk to the corner store we stand on the side of to take photos.

Afterward, in spite of Jerran’s uncompensated hard work, I mine the photos for errors. Sometimes, I never put the photos up at all, other times the blog post lives for a few days before I have convinced myself I look terrible and delete it.

I strive for perfection. If my clothes become wrinkled or dirty I will leave where I am and go home. I’ve learned the thing you already knew. No one cares if my shirt is wrinkled, if there is a small stain on my clothing, or if my hair looks too puffy on one side. I still care. But, I am posting the perfectly fine photos that I hate to teach myself a lesson about what really matters. Because when I envision my ideal self I am dancing with abandon as cares fall away, not searching for my imperfections.


T-Shirt – Asos

Jeans – Torrid (similar)

Sandals – Brikenstock