As part of the personal journey I'm on that started with this

, I'm taking

's online course that accompanies her book,

The Gifts of Imperfection.

Each week a reading assignment is provided along with an art project of some kind.

This week, the topic is authenticity. Brene says authenticity is something we can all consciously practice - she calls it "

the daily practice of letting go of who we think we're supposed to be and embracing who we really are

." That really resonated with me after the day I had today.

First, I should say by way of disclaimer, it was a wonderful day, filled with family and the opportunity to practice my art by performing onstage. My parents were here to see my show, and we went for brunch. My nephew Cal was born on Tuesday, and as new grandparents, my Mom and Dad are obviously excited. My aunts and uncles are excited. Our friends are excited. Our acquaintances are excited. It seems that darling Cal (and he really is darling - I'm not allowed to post pictures yet or OH, I WOULD) is the main topic of conversation and enthusiasm in our family circle and in our extended circle of friends. It's very hard for me to not imply and internalize a message from that: the message that it's good to be settled, it's good to have kids. It's very hard for me to not feel like "less-than" because I do not have these things. It's very hard not to think there's something wrong with the way I'm living when it feels so different from that of my brother, my cousins, my parents' friends' kids, the ones I grew up with, who were my contemporaries.

So this idea to be authentic - to be who I really am and

let go of who I think I'm supposed to be

- felt really powerful to me today. I think I'm supposed to be somebody's wife. I think I'm supposed to be somebody's mom. I think I'm supposed to own a house by now. Weigh less. Feel more balanced, calm. The fact that I'm not, or that I don't, really does make me feel like I am not a whole person, a lot of the time. I feel like these are badges of honour that I'm missing - visible signs, that LOOK! SOMEBODY LOVES ME, or I HAVE STUFF - and that the absence of these symbols means something about my worth as a person.

I know it's insane. It's just how I feel. And so the idea that I should try to let go of those feelings - the idea that those feelings are WRONG - and that (to link back to Brene's initial lesson) I'm imperfect but still ENOUGH - well, that message was received today, somehow. It might not stick, but it's there today, which is a big deal.

The art journaling exercise today was to find a photo of myself that reflects who I really am - to wade through old photos to find images that provide emotional resonance for me (rather than photos where I think I look good or cool). That was a tough exercise, because I self-censor so much - there just aren't photos of me that exist if I don't think I look pretty, or less fat, or cool. Anything where I think I look weird, goofy, chubby, stupid - those pictures just don't exist.

I won't tell you which of these photos won the contest as revealing my authentic self, but these are the photos that made the shortlist, for what it's worth. These are photos that remind me of times in my life where I have felt truly myself, felt permission to be exactly who I am, nothing more, nothing less.

pologies Dad for the hungover (?) sleepy Pops picture - and RIP Blue Pierre Cardin Bathrobe, 1979 - 1994

Again, apologies Cathy - but we were

both

making silly faces...

My name is Danielle, and I'm a perfectionist.

I feel like for those who know me well, this statement is not a surprise. It is a surprise to me. I dislike enough things about myself to believe that everyone reading this will scoff, "You're clearly not a perfectionist - look at you!"

Well - yes. Look at me. I am looking at me. And that voice that criticizes myself, that dark corner of my heart that despises so many things about myself? That's the perfectionist. It's the perfectionist who loudly declares how RIDICULOUS I am, that everyone can SEE that, what a JOKE. The perfectionist does not see the lawyer, scholar, singer, writer, actress, world traveller, volunteer, devoted kitty-mama and friend. The perfectionist sees a loud, ugly, fat, obnoxious loner who doesn't own a house, doesn't have a husband, doesn't have kids, is too old to continue auditioning for musical theatre, and isn't as good a lawyer as she pretends to be. That perfectionist voice is the last one I hear before I go to bed. It's the first one I hear when I wake up in the morning.

I've been chasing perfect for a long time. For every A I got, there was an A+ to be had. For every degree I got, there was another one I had to reach for (I'd still be going if the money hadn't run out). For every law firm I got a job at, there was another, BIGGER law firm to get a job at. For every show I got to perform in, there was another one that I really needed to be in. When I've got a night to myself at home, I beat myself up about not going out. If the house isn't perfectly tidy and doesn't look like a magazine, no one can come over, and I can't relax and read a book. If people come for dinner, that better be the most perfect, Martha Stewart-inspired party you've ever seen. I've falsely confused perfection with being loved, and being loveable, even to myself.

My perfectionism doesn't come out of some extreme self-love, a desire to strive for the best because I'm worth it. I know this because the flip side of my perfectionism is shame. I strive for perfection to outrun the shame, but because I can never achieve that perfection, I spend much more time mired in the quicksand of shame than celebrating my successes. For everything that I have "failed" at, whether that was true failure or just failing to meet my own ridiculous standards, I feel a deep, deep shame and dislike for myself. My weight yo-yo's are the perfect example of that. Gained a pound? Well, I'd better give up then, because I failed. Pass the cookies, it's all over. I'll punish myself by eating another one. And maybe another. The vicious cycle continues. I hate myself for not being perfect, so I eat another metaphorical cookie, I become further away from perfect, I hate myself some more. Dating, too. I've put up with horrible treatment from horrible people that I would never introduce to my worst enemy, because I think that's what I deserve, because I'm so horribly flawed. I have not dared to let myself love people who I think I do not measure up to.

Criticism, even from people who have no business being critical, or whose opinions we should not care about, becomes deeply wounding to perfectionists like me, because we attach a sense of shame and blame to having "failed" to measure up to some real or imagined standard.

I don't know where this idea that I had to be perfect came from. I do not blame my parents for some deep dark wrong they did to me as a child. I was a difficult kid - I hear those stories a lot - but they also loved me so hard it hurt. And yet somewhere along the way, I heard and internalized the message that to be loved by myself and others, I need to be perfect. I love other people whole-heartedly, flaws and all, but myself, no.

Perfectionism is an insidious thing. It means that when I accomplish, I must accomplish more. It means when I fail, I feel a shame so deep I feel embarrassed to be around others, and would gladly avoid myself if possibly could (that's not a suicidal thought, mind you, just a desire to not be me).

But lately, I have started to ask myself, what is the end goal of my being perfect? What's at the end of the rainbow, that unattainable goal that I keep striving for? Where am I killing myself to get to? What is it that is so worth being so terribly hard on myself every step along the way to obtain?

It's love. Being loved.

I'm not talking just romantic love (although that's always nice). I feel loved by my friends, and my family. I have felt loved by romantic partners. But the key ingredient that's missing is loving myself. Not only do I keep thinking I need to be perfect so someone else will love me - I need to be perfect so I can love myself.

And that's the tragedy of it. I will never be perfect. And unless I seriously start thinking about how I think and feel, and changing some of these damaging thoughts and behaviours, I'll never love myself. And that's a really, really sad place to be.

So I'm letting go of perfect. I have to.

I have zero idea how to do this. Honestly, I don't. I have no idea how you put aside something that you feel in the very core of your being and choose to feel something else. We as a society cannot explain what makes us fall in love with other people, how the hell can we explain or teach how to fall in love with ourselves? So I know this is going to be a long, long, difficult, sad, frustrating process full of demons and discomfort and roadblocks. I don't know where the road even starts, but I know that much. I also know that I am so very very tired of aiming for perfect, and failing miserably, and feeling such shame at my own existence. There is so much beauty in the world, and it is so, so sad that I don't let myself be part of it.

It's a big thing for me to be this honest on my blog. I have always limited myself to humorous, witty posts about "perfect" moments in my life - world travel, cooking adventures, theatrical endeavours, and other accomplishments that make me appear very together, a real whole person living a fabulous life. I have a lot of fear around putting these words out into the world, admitting that Oz the Magnificent is nothing but a facade. But I also feel like I have to give voice to some of the things I'm struggling with, so that I can benefit from the wisdom and understanding of the people in my life who have maybe been in the same place. Or the people who are already able to be their own best friends, who can teach me the tricks of the trade. I'm committed to living with the discomfort. There's really no other choice.

I'm letting go of perfect, and settling for loved. Let the journey commence.

Authentic Dani.

Letting Go of Perfect.