I haven’t journaled at all yesterday. I wrote the header and then nothing.
In the past, I would have done my best to catch up. Now I just wrote a poem that wanted to be written on the empty page, and then moved on to today’s entry.
When I had the flu, I skipped several days. I didn’t let that keep me from journaling. I just turned the page and wrote on.
In the past, it would have been a cause for anxiety, of writing several pages acting as if I wrote them on the day. I also abandoned journaling for weeks because it made me anxious.
I followed other journalers on Instagram and felt inferior in how my book looked, or how the scrap pages I made in it looked. I tore out pages because they weren’t perfect enough, or because I smeared some ink in my impatience to write.
It makes me sad to think of the insecurity I felt back then. I make lots of errors now, shared a page on Instagram for instance where I wrote one of the two words on the page wrong. It’s ok.
We weren’t born to be perfect. We were born to learn. And if we make mistakes, all we need to do is turn the page and try again.
Perfectionism has nothing on us.