I am a self-proclaimed work in progress. I say this without apology and, increasingly, without embarrassment. I have spent enough years watching people pretend to have themselves figured out to know that I would rather be honestly unfinished than perfectly packaged. We live in an age obsessed with fixing ourselves. Fix your body. Fix your career. Fix your relationships. Fix your childhood trauma. Fix your skin. Fix your finances. Fix your mindset. Fix your morning routine. Fix your sleep. Fix your personality. If you have somehow managed to fix all of that, there will invariably be another podcast, book, guru or algorithm waiting to inform you that something else is terribly wrong with you. Apparently, existing is no longer enough. We must constantly upgrade ourselves. I find the whole idea exhausting. There is something deeply unsettling about the modern obsession with becoming a “better version” of oneself. Better according to whom? Better for what? At what point does self-improvement stop being growth and become dissatisfaction disguised as ambition? I am not against growth. Far from it. I have changed enormously over the years. I have made mistakes, learnt lessons, unlearnt some of them, repeated a few, surprised myself, disappointed myself and occasionally become the person I once thought I could never be. However, I refuse to believe that every imperfection in me is a defect waiting to be corrected. Perhaps some things simply make us human.

We admire the polished photograph, the successful career, the impeccable home, the well-behaved children, the perfectly maintained marriage and the woman who apparently manages all of it while looking effortlessly radiant. We rarely see the chaos outside the frame.

We admire the polished photograph, the successful career, the impeccable home, the well-behaved children, the perfectly maintained marriage and the woman who apparently........

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