The Cracks That Let the Light In

When I was twelve, I thought my mother was perfect.

She always knew how to pack the exact right snacks for field trips, how to make the softest pancakes on Saturday mornings, and how to sing just off-key enough to make us laugh when the days felt heavy. She remembered birthdays—mine, my friends’, even my teachers’. She was calm in storms and quick with hugs. She seemed like the kind of person who had everything figured out.

Until the day I realized she didn’t.

It started with a small moment. I came home from school to find her sitting on the kitchen floor, crying silently, her hands pressed into her eyes like she was trying to hold something inside that had already slipped out. I froze. I’d never seen her like that before.

She looked up, wiped her face, and smiled weakly. “Hey, baby,” she said, like nothing was wrong.

But something was.

That night, I lay in bed wondering how a perfect person could cry like that—lost and broken in the middle of the afternoon. I didn’t know then that she had just lost her job, that bills were stacking up, or that she was carrying worries she didn’t know how to share.

All I knew was that she wasn’t perfect anymore. And, strangely, that made me love her more.

Years passed, and I carried that moment with me. I started to see the cracks in people, and I became oddly protective of them. I noticed the way my best friend pretended to be loud and silly when she was really scared of being left out. I saw the way my uncle drank one too many beers at family gatherings, laughing a little too loud while his eyes told a different story. I saw the way teachers had off days, how classmates hid pain behind sarcasm.

And slowly, I began to understand: no one is perfect.

Not the people we love. Not the people we look up to. Not even the people who seem to have everything.

I didn’t fully learn this, though, until I had to confront my own imperfections.

I was twenty-three when I made the biggest mistake of my life.

I was fresh out of college, working a job I didn't love but pretended to. I was trying to keep up the illusion that I was doing fine—fine emotionally, fine financially, fine socially. But I wasn’t. I was exhausted, disconnected, and desperately afraid of failing.

So when I missed a deadline that cost my team a major client, I did the worst thing I could have done: I lied about it.

I blamed a miscommunication, deflected responsibility, and hoped it would all go away.

It didn’t.

My boss found out. The team found out. And I was let go—not just from the job, but from the reputation I’d worked so hard to build.

The shame was crushing. I felt like I had let everyone down—my family, my friends, myself. I locked myself away for weeks, barely answering messages, unable to look people in the eye. All I could think was: I messed up. I’m broken. I don’t deserve forgiveness.

But then something unexpected happened.

One by one, the people I was most afraid to face showed up.

My mom was the first. She brought soup and silence, then said gently, “You’re still you, sweetheart. One mistake doesn’t erase all the good in you.”

My best friend followed. She said, “We all screw up. But lying to yourself about it just makes the hole deeper. It’s time to climb out.”

Even my boss, who had every right to be furious, sent an email weeks later. He wrote: We’ve all been there. Own it, learn from it, and move forward. Don’t let this define you.

It wasn’t immediate, but something in me shifted. I began to believe that maybe imperfection didn’t mean unworthy. Maybe messing up didn’t make me unlovable—it just made me human.

The more I opened up about that time, the more others did too.

A friend confessed she once cheated on an exam and carried the guilt for years. Another shared about losing a scholarship because of a bad decision. Even my aunt, the pillar of calm in our family, told me about the time she walked out of a job interview mid-way because a panic attack took over.

Each story, each flaw, each misstep—they didn’t diminish who they were. In fact, it made them more relatable. More real. And often, more admirable.

It’s strange, isn’t it? How we spend so much time trying to be perfect, when the truth is, our imperfections are what connect us the most.

Now, I live with the understanding that no one has it all together. We’re all carrying something—grief, regret, anxiety, self-doubt. Some people hide it better than others, but it’s there.

I’ve learned to be kinder—to others, yes, but especially to myself.

Because perfection isn’t the goal anymore.

Honesty is.

Growth is.

Forgiveness is.

Some days, I still feel like I fall short. I still forget birthdays, miss deadlines, say the wrong thing, hold onto guilt longer than I should. But now I remind myself: the goal isn't to be flawless. It's to be real. To be better today than I was yesterday. To keep trying, even when it’s hard.

Moral of the Story:

No one is perfect—and that’s not a flaw. It’s a gift. Our imperfections make us human. They teach us empathy, growth, humility, and connection. When we stop striving to appear perfect and start showing up as we truly are, we open the door to deeper relationships, honest healing, and genuine joy.