The Moment I Stopped Waiting for Perfection

There’s a reason they call it “falling” in love. The journey is messy, exhilarating, full of unexpected twists—and if you’re not careful, you might scrape your knee on the gravel trying to catch your balance. Loving other people has its fair share of epic stumbles, but let me tell you—the real plot twist is learning to love yourself first. Spoiler alert: That’s no smooth and starry rom-com montage either.

For the longest time, I was convinced self-love was just a second-rate consolation prize doled out to all the single people while everyone else was coupled off, happily making brunch plans and putting “future couple costumes” Pinterest boards together. But real self-love? It’s less about spa nights with cucumber slices and more about sitting with your imperfections until they stop feeling like failures and start feeling like… you.

Here’s how this girl from the tidepools of Maine slowly—imperfectly—learned to love her ever-evolving, not-always-graceful self, one step (and one faceplant into a metaphorical mud puddle) at a time.

I Was a Serial Critic (and I Didn’t Even Know It)

It all started in Acadia National Park. A harmless spot to find yourself, right? I’m out there, huffing it up Cadillac Mountain, thinking I’m embracing the great outdoors and feeling all “rooted in nature,” but what’s totally killing the vibe? Me. I’m standing on this breathtaking peak, dissecting my own existence like I’m the subject of a particularly harsh documentary. Was I out of breath too soon? Did my hiking gear look too rookie? Was the group ahead of me silently judging the fact that I stopped to eat pretzels with peanut butter mid-trail?

And it was like that in other parts of life too—always asking, Am I enough? Who does it better? What's wrong with me this time? There’s this term in environmental studies called “invasive species”—plants or animals that overrun an ecosystem and destroy its balance. That’s what my inner critic was: an invasive species. It had planted itself in my brain, and by the time I realized it, its roots were stubbornly tangled in everything, from my self-image to my dating habits.

Step one of learning to love myself? Not ripping that critic out entirely—it’s impossible, trust me—but noticing when it showed up and finding a productive way to quiet it.

Cue the “Unfollow” Button on My Inner Instagram Feed

Let’s get one thing straight: I love Instagram. I’ll scroll through wildflower close-ups and swoon-worthy coastal shots any day. But comparing your real, messy life to someone else’s perfectly filtered one? That’s like comparing a freshly gathered clam to steak tartare—not the same experience, not meant to compete.

I decided my mind needed its own petty little “unfollow” spree. Every time I caught myself comparing my reality to someone else’s “highlight reel,” I’d pause. Sometimes it was the warning-beacon-perfect couples in cozy sweaters. Other times, it was a friend who seemed to have life figured out—five yoga poses ahead while I was still sitting cross-legged, wondering how to clear my mind without replaying every socially awkward encounter since 2009.

Instead of spiraling (okay, sometimes spiraling a little), I’d ask: Why do I think their triumph makes me less worthy? What was the truth behind their post-perfect world? More often than not, this mental “unfollow” exercise helped me turn my energy inward. Was I kind to a stranger today? Did I honestly enjoy my hike, even if my shirt clung awkwardly to my back because you cannot out-hike humidity in late July? These were small wins I could celebrate without an external scoreboard.

I Stopped Searching for My “Missing Piece”

Thanks to movies like Jerry Maguire and every other love story where someone hems and haws about being “completed” by their soulmate, I’d unknowingly written myself as half of a puzzle waiting for the last piece. (Spoiler alert: Jerry’s “you complete me” moment? Cute, but misleading.)

One summer, after leading a tour group through Acadia, I realized how much energy I poured into making myself “datable.” I picked up hobbies not because I liked them, but because I thought they’d seem cool. I once agreed to re-watch The Office from the pilot—not because I’m not a fan (I am, Dwight kills me)—but because I wanted to impress someone who wouldn’t shut up about it.

And then, it hit me: I didn’t need someone else to define my worth. Being single wasn’t some awkward holding pattern I needed to fast-forward through. So I decided to romance myself a little: solo picnics near tidepools, reading whatever books I wanted (yes, and frequently re-reading Rachel Carson essays), and spending my designated “connect-with-humanity-time” building stronger friendships instead of texting someone I didn’t actually like just to feel wanted.

When Daydreams Turn into Decluttering

The stuff you carry around—mentally and literally—also shapes your love story with yourself. A couple of years ago, coastal dampness had crept into my cottage near Bar Harbor, not unlike those lingering memories of rejection do in your brain if you’re not careful. One gray, drizzly day, I found myself opening closet doors to purge anything that didn’t feel right anymore.

Old clothes that didn’t fit? Out. Photos of someone who ghosted me right after a magical sunset hike? Bye. That time Marie Kondo asked, “Does it spark joy?” was replaying in my head, and before I knew it, I applied the same logic to my inner baggage. Did holding onto others’ approval bring me joy? Nope. Did trying to make myself “better” to fit others’ opinions serve me? Not a chance.

Sometimes, loving yourself looks like decluttering not just your space, but also your mind—indulging in a metaphorical deep-clean to make room for authenticity.

No, I’m Still Not Perfect (And That’s the Point)

I’d love to tie this all up in a neat bow and present myself as the enlightened self-love whisperer. But here’s the truth: Loving yourself isn’t a finish line. It’s more like a tide that ebbs and flows, resting and returning over and over again. It’s also as messy as eating lobster in public (don a bib, let it drip, and embrace the slurpy joy).

What I’ve learned about self-love is this: It’s in the small choices, not some grand epiphany. It’s about being in awe of your quirks, like the way I’d rather watch Atwood documentaries than overly produced dramas, or how I know the precise sound of waves warning a storm is coming. It’s about celebrating failures, too—because not conquering every mountain makes you more human, not less.

So, to anyone else out there overanalyzing your hangnail or second-guessing every social moment, know this: Self-love isn’t reserved for the ultra-confident or serenely zen. It’s yours. Even if you’re a practical, scrappy coastal kid still figuring it out, like me.