The Habit That Saved Me

The Day I Stopped Chasing Perfection

Let me take you back to a moment that defines what I’m about to confess. It was a Wednesday evening in Santa Monica, and I was mid-conversation with a woman I was absolutely smitten with—or so I thought. The sunset spilled golden hues over the waves, the kind of cinematic scene that belongs in a Nora Ephron movie, and I was attempting to impress her with my knowledge of sustainable architecture. “Did you know they’re installing a rooftop garden on that building?” I said, pointing vaguely at some high-rise in the distance. She nodded politely, then glanced at her phone.

I knew instantly I’d lost her—if I’d even ever had her attention to begin with. It hit me: It wasn’t the conversation. It wasn’t the topic. It was me. I was trying so hard to be someone who would sweep her off her feet that I’d bulldozed over the simpler, more interesting person I actually was. That night was a turning point, but I didn’t know it yet.

The habit that saved me didn’t come in all at once, grand and cinematic, like a montage in Rocky. It slipped into my life slowly but surely, the way coffee seeps into the fabric of your favorite white shirt. The habit was this: accepting imperfection—and leaving space for it.

Turning Over the Theatre Program

I’ve always been one of those compulsive planners whose idea of spontaneity is scheduling an “unplanned” Sunday afternoon. Growing up in Santa Barbara, where sunsets look painted and people somehow manage to wear linen without wrinkling it, I internalized this false idea that life should always look perfect. Like an episode of Big Little Lies, minus the soundtrack by Michael Kiwanuka.

This need for perfection followed me into adulthood and crept into my relationships. I’d agonize over whether I was saying the right thing, picking the right restaurant, wearing the right button-down that read “effortlessly chic” instead of “tried way too hard.” Deep down, I thought that a perfectly curated image would compensate for any internal messiness.

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t. In fact, it does the opposite. It makes people unsure of where they stand with you because nothing feels real.

What finally clicked for me was something seemingly banal: a theatre program. I was on a second date at a small playhouse in Los Angeles, a place where fake foliage clings to the walls and everyone pronounces names like Chekhov reverently. The lights dimmed, and I realized with growing panic that I had no idea what this play was about. My date whispered, “You didn’t read the summary on the back of the program?”

I admitted I hadn’t. And then, out of nowhere, we both started laughing. She confessed she didn’t really know who Chekhov was, aside from “some old guy who was probably sad.” I laughed again—and something ancient inside me cracked open. For the rest of the night, I stopped performing. I wasn’t trying to be the Perfectly Well-Read Chris. I was just… me.

Why Being Imperfect is Magnetic

Here’s the thing: perfection, while aspirational, is boring. It’s the same reason we’re drawn to pottery with cracks or Charlie Brown Christmas trees. There’s poetry in imperfection because it reveals something real—flaws and all.

When I started leaning into imperfection, weird things happened. I began showing up as myself—messy, human, and unsure. I’d admit when I didn’t know something. I’d joke about my terrible cooking experiments (pasta with almond butter sauce, anyone?). I even started saying things like, “Hey, that hurt my feelings,” when I was upset instead of pretending I was invincible.

Shockingly, people didn’t scatter. Quite the opposite. Friends, dates, even colleagues began opening up to me in ways they hadn’t before. Vulnerability begets vulnerability. It’s like the analog chain reaction to what Brené Brown has been telling us for years.

How to Start—Because Let’s Be Real, It’s Not Easy

If you've spent your life chasing perfection, turning the habit around feels like teaching yourself to write with your non-dominant hand. Here are a few guidelines that worked for me:

  1. Let Silence Sit at the Table: Not every pause in conversation needs to be filled with sparkling banter or an anecdote that makes you sound like the love child of Neil deGrasse Tyson and Phoebe Waller-Bridge. Some silences simply are, and that’s okay.

  2. Share the “Small Stupid Stuff”: We spend so much time curating our highlight reels that we miss out on the charm of everyday quirks. Share the fact that you can’t pronounce “anemone” or the fact that you (still) cry during animated movies.

  3. Laugh at Yourself First: Did I mispronounce quinoa for an entire year in college? Yes. Did I explain final exams one quarter using a metaphor involving The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills? Also yes. These stories are gold. Share them.

  4. Sit With Messy Emotions: This one’s the hardest—and trust me, it requires practice. When you feel embarrassed or rejected, resist the urge to hide behind a curated mask. Sit with it, breathe, and remind yourself that everyone has been there.

The Ripple Effect of Making Space

Now, this might sound melodramatic (and perhaps it is—I studied creative writing, give me a break), but the habit of embracing imperfection expanded into other areas of my life. I stopped pressure-washing every photo I posted online and took selfies that included my unruly hair at beach picnics.

Even as someone who loves the environment, I used to think I had to be the guy with all the answers. Now, when people ask me things like, “What’s the most eco-conscious laundry detergent?” I’m comfortable saying, "I don't know, but let’s figure it out together."

Oddly enough, imperfection also does wonders for the romance department. A few months ago, I spilled coffee on my shirt before a first date. Instead of projecting that whole, This is fine, nothing happened energy, I owned it. I walked in, sheepishly pointed at the stain, and said, “This is how my day’s going.” You know what? She laughed. The date was amazing.

Leave Room for the Magic

Here’s the most surprising takeaway: The more I’ve embraced imperfection, the more fulfilling my relationships—romantic or otherwise—have become. By leaving space for messiness, I’ve been surprised, delighted, and deeply connected in ways I never dreamed of when I was too busy straining to be perfect.

So here’s my challenge to anyone reading: Give people the gift of your unpolished self. Throw yourself into the play without studying the program, wear the wrinkled linen shirt, or admit you’ve never tried sushi when someone assumes you’re a foodie. That space you leave for your imperfect self might just end up being the most interesting part of the story.

And trust me—life’s way too short for almond butter pasta.