In pursuit of perfection, my writing has hiked ridgelines and trudged through backwoods. I have moved mountains and never been able to walk a path that says, “This is good. This is enough. I’m proud.”

Mercy comes with practice. Yet no matter how I’ve practiced, I circle the same signpost of acceptance. I’m unable to make that trip.

I call the nagging inner critic in my mind a “second conscience.” It keeps trying to finalize my reality to reach its own expectations. The expectation is to unquestioningly satisfy the compulsion to be perfect. It’s exhausting.

When it comes to writing, perfectionism cares about finality, and revision requires flexibility. Both have their uses. However, perfection can be the brittle bone that breaks, and the tense muscle that tears. Revision’s flexibility is about the journey.

Right now, my keyboard keys click as I tap out this message. My wrists arch over the desk as my arms stretch forward. My hips lean into a sturdy, unmoving chair. Turmoil becomes measurable with urgent typing followed by occasional clicks of the mouse.

As I have done many times in writing, I return to a familiar trailhead with bags packed to an ideal weight. Yet in my first step, I can’t walk any further. I can only circle the signpost. My second conscience mutters, “I haven’t done enough. I haven’t righted enough wrongs. I haven’t perfected it yet, but when I do, then I’ll move forward.”

But today, I’ve decided to try something different. Maybe the only mountain to hike is this one, right here and now? Maybe that’s enough? Maybe a work in progress is the best thing I can write? Maybe a work in progress is the best thing I can be?

My boots cross a boundary. My suppressed smile spreads. Hope swoops down from a sycamore and soars up its green trail. I let my perfectly packed burdens fall at the trailhead. I start walking until walking becomes a run. I’m going to find stories meant for more than perfection. I’ll write stories meant for a brave life.