“If we were all forced to wear a label, what would yours say?”

So many words come to my mind when my grandpa asks me this question. These will become his last words to me. I wish he had not chosen these. Because they will haunt me until I finally find the answer many years, almost a lifetime, later.

When he tells me this, I am only sixteen. And he is seventy-two.

At first, I think my label should be any of these words:

Nice

Caring

Depressed

Anxious

Vulnerable

Sad

Pretender

Dramatic

Funny

Happy

Cries

Laughs

Smiles

Sings
Yet, none of these seem to fit me. They could apply to anyone, anywhere. I want words that stick. Words that resonate. Words that are unique to me.

When I am eighteen it is:

Free.

Twenty it is:

In Love.

Twenty-seven it is:

Married.

Thirty it is:

Mother.

Sixty it is:

Grandmother.

Seventy it is:

Sick.

Seventy-two, 52 years after my grandpa died, I find the answer.

After years of searching, I find it. It is perfect, unlike me.

The one that says everything turns out to be:

Atelophobia - the fear of not being good enough or being imperfect.

My whole life, I have felt the need to be perfect.  I do not know why. I understand that it is physically impossible to be perfect, but I still try to.

Although each year a different word has defined me; this word has been there the whole time.

Atelophobia.

Clear as water. Like the ocean, it laps at my thoughts.

I expect perfection from myself, yet I let anyone hurt me. Others can be whoever they want, but not me. I have to be perfect.

I never felt pressure from my family or friends, I always just put it on myself. I was my toughest critic. My first kiss was perfect, when I was seventeen. My marriage was perfect, when I was twenty-seven: on the beach under the stars.

Being a mother finally showed me how it is okay to be imperfect. Yes, I did the wrong things time and time again, but I loved my kids more than anything. And being a grandmother showed me that kids have the unreasonable expectation that everyone is good and that no one will hurt you.

To conclude the story, now I am eighty years old and still living. I got over my sickness and death scare that happened ten years ago.

Surprisingly this story will end before I die. It will end when I am still happy. So rarely do stories end before death. For some reason, authors find the need to bring their readers to tears. I do not know, maybe I already have brought the readers of my story to tears. But for now, this is where my story ends.

Yes, I still have

Atelophobia.

But I now know that

it is okay to be

Imperfect.

I am not just imperfect: 

I am a Mother.

I am a Grandmother,

A Friend,

A Wife,

A Mentor,

A Teacher,

A Writer,

A Singer,

And a Human Being. 

So, grandpa, I cannot be confined to one label, because I am so many things. 

But, if you only want one, grandpa, here it is:

Imperfect. (And, grandpa, I am okay with that).

So here are my last words to you, grandpa:

What would your label be?

I think it should be:

Hero. 

My Hero.

Thank you, grandpa. 

Because of you, I feel that it is okay to be

Imperfect. 

As long as I am enough for you and the ones I love,

Then I am okay being

Imperfect. 

It just shows I am

Human.

So next time you are too fast to judge one, son, daughter, just imagine what their label is:

Human. 

And as humans we are all

Imperfect.

And that's okay, too. 

Just don't be too fast to make judgements because everyone carries their own worries, their own imperfections.

And these imperfections are what make life so perfectly

Imperfect.