Perfect Enough For Who I Am Today

It was 9:30 in the morning. I was sitting at my desk with music playing quietly in the background, making a few last-minute changes to my next book. Nothing significant. A few formatting issues I'd found while reading the proof. Silly little things, really. Things most people probably wouldn't notice.

I noticed.

And they were bugging me. So I fixed them. I made the corrections across every version that needed them, uploaded the final files and looked at the button in front of me.

Approve.

With my previous books, this was usually where things got complicated. I'd hover. Maybe I should check it one more time. Maybe there was something I'd missed. Maybe I should upload one more version. One more change.  One more look.

Not this time.

I clicked Approve.

That was it.

I sat back in my chair and smiled. Then I closed my eyes and let out one long breath. Coffee seemed like the appropriate way to celebrate.

The strange thing wasn't that I thought the book was perfect.

I just knew it was done.

I'm not sure I've always been very good at knowing that. There was a time when I could reread an email ten times before sending it. Not because the first version was bad. It usually wasn't. I just knew it could be better. One word could be clearer. One sentence could be stronger. The tone could be slightly different.

So I'd read it again.

And again.

I developed systems for things because systems kept me from spending ridiculous amounts of time trying to get everything exactly right. I traveled every week for years. Eventually I had packing down to about fifteen minutes. Not because I became particularly relaxed about packing. I had a system.

The system saved me from myself.

Being capable was never really enough for me. I didn't want to be capable. I wanted to be the best. There's something uncomfortable about admitting that now, but it's true. I wanted to do things better than I'd done them before. Better than other people had done them. Better than anyone expected me to.

And for a long time, that worked.

It pushed me. It made me learn. It made me prepare. It made me very good at a lot of things.

The problem with better is that there is always more of it. There is always someone better. Another improvement. Another possibility. Another thing you could have thought of. Another version.

If better is the finish line, you never actually get to finish.

Not too long ago, my husband asked me if I understood that my work was good. I laughed.

"Duh. I'm Type A and arrogant enough to know it's good."

He gave me a look. I knew the look. Apparently that wasn't the answer he was looking for. So I thought about it.

Yes. I think my work is good. I also know it isn't for everyone.

Those are two very different things. Maybe there was a time when I needed them to be the same.

A few days before I hit that Approve button, I sat on our porch in my rocking chair with a cup of coffee and a warm blanket wrapped around me. I had the physical proof of the book in my hands. I read the entire thing in one sitting. I earmarked a handful of pages. A formatting issue here. Something small there. Things I wanted to fix.

But when I reached the end, I closed the book and sat there for a minute. I had tears in my eyes. Not because I thought I'd written the perfect book. I didn't think everyone would love it. I didn't think everyone would understand it. I didn't even think everyone needed it. I thought something much simpler.

I needed to read that. I hope it reaches the person who needs it too.

That was enough.

Apparently I'm learning what enough feels like. This does not mean I've suddenly become a person who throws something together and declares it good enough.

My husband recently asked me to make him some nutritional snacks he'd seen in a video. My first attempt was a disaster. I'd written down part of the instructions incorrectly and created something with roughly the structural integrity of pudding.

Fine.

Take two.

I went back, figured out what I'd done wrong and tried again. Much better. They're still not quite right. The recipe needs some tweaking before they're perfect for him. But instead of immediately making another batch, I stopped. I want to know what he thinks first.

What does he like? What would he change? What would make them right for him?

There will be another attempt.

Just not today.

Maybe that's the difference. I used to think being satisfied with something meant I had stopped reaching. If I accepted good, maybe I wouldn't get to great. If I stopped looking for the next improvement, maybe I'd miss it. If I stopped striving, maybe I'd stop growing.

I don't believe that anymore.

I still want to be better. I hope I always do. I'll write something six months from now with tools I don't have today. I'll learn things. I'll change my mind. I'll probably discover a better way to make those snacks.

Some things I do today will last exactly as they are. Others won't. That's okay. I'm not trying to create something today that satisfies every version of me that will ever exist. I'm trying to create something that reflects who I am today. What I know today. What I can give today.

And when it does, I can let it be finished.

That doesn't mean I'm done. Maybe that's what took me so long to understand. I can be done with this and still want to do more. I can be satisfied with what I created and still believe I can create something better next time. I can stop without becoming stagnant. I can finish without being finished.

At 9:30 that morning, I looked at the final version of my book. There was nothing else I wanted to change. Not because there would never be a better sentence. Not because some future version of me couldn't write it differently. It simply didn't need anything else from the person I am today.

So I hit Approve.

Closed my eyes.

Exhaled.

And went to get coffee.

Maybe it was already done.

Maybe, finally, I knew it.