The Imperfect Self
Learning to Love the Cracks
For most of my life, I’ve been trying to be somebody else.
The parts that were broken — the parts that didn’t shine, didn’t fit, didn’t impress — were the ones I pushed aside. I tried to cover them up, to hide behind an image of someone better. Someone who wasn’t exactly me, but a version of me that I thought would be easier for the world to love.
I tried really hard to hide the imperfect parts away, tuck them into corners where no one could see them. But those are the very parts that were born from pain, from struggle — from the moments that shaped who I am.
When it comes to other people, I never look for perfection. I’m drawn to the ones who are a little rough around the edges. The ones who carry a bit of truth in their eyes, a bit of wear in their souls. The ones who don’t hide the cracks.
Those people — the imperfect ones — are the ones who speak to me.
Their brokenness calls to my brokenness. Their honesty feels like home.
There’s a deep longing in me to be part of a story like that — the kind you find in books — where two imperfect people come together, not to fix each other, but to heal together. Whether it’s a friendship or something more, there’s beauty in that shared tenderness, in being seen and loved not despite the cracks, but because of them.
For so long, I’ve searched for that story in my own life. But maybe the truth is, I never really believed someone would want to do the same for me.
So far, that’s been true.
My brokenness, my scars — the things that make me who I am — are often seen as something that makes me less, rather than more. Instead of being recognized as the map of all I’ve survived, they’re treated like proof that I haven’t arrived yet.
But I’m starting to see it differently.
Lately, I’ve learned something that put so many things into perspective.
I was listening to a video about attachment theory — how our early relationships with caregivers shape the way we attach to others later in life.
In short:
Anxious attachment is born from inconsistency — sometimes our needs were met, sometimes they weren’t. It teaches us love can appear and disappear at any moment.
Avoidant attachment comes from environments where emotions were suppressed or criticized — where nothing was ever good enough, and feelings were treated like weaknesses.
Disorganized attachment grows out of chaos — when the very people meant to protect us were also the ones who caused pain, creating confusion and fear around closeness.
And then there’s secure attachment, born from stability — when love feels safe, consistent, and dependable.
I’m not one of the secure ones.
I grew up in a mix of the other three — and from what I can tell, that’s the most “exciting” kind. It somehow manages to embody the brokenness of all three insecure attachment styles at once.
When you’re raised in an environment that’s not emotionally safe, you learn to survive in other ways. You learn to adapt. You learn to read the room before you enter it, to sense shifts in energy, to predict moods before they turn into storms.
Some people call that empathy — and the term empath has become quite popular lately — but others call it what it really is: hypervigilance.
A skill born from the need to stay safe. From being constantly on guard. From expecting danger even in familiar places, and never being fully at ease around most people.
Many of us who are empaths didn’t become that way by chance — we became that way because we had to. It was survival. We learned to feel everything around us to stay safe. It’s a superpower, yes — but one that came with a cost.
I also learned that in those kinds of environments, our brains adapt too. The prefrontal cortex — the part responsible for logic, critical thinking, planning — becomes overdeveloped. We grow into adults who analyze everything, who can see a dozen possible outcomes before they happen. People call it intelligence or awareness, but often, it’s just the brain of someone who had to stay one step ahead to survive.
It’s a skill, a gift even, but it didn’t come free. It came from vigilance, from fear, from years of needing to make sense of things that didn’t make sense.
And that’s when it hit me — by rejecting the imperfect parts of ourselves, we’re also rejecting the strengths that were forged in those imperfections. The same pain that fractured us also gave us empathy, insight, intuition, creativity, depth.
Would we even be who we are without the things we’ve endured?
Would we still feel, see, and love the same way?
And if someone is looking for perfection — for smooth edges and unmarked surfaces — would they still love us if not for our scars?
Maybe our brokenness isn’t what makes us less.
Maybe it’s what makes us real.
The truth is, people often want the fruits of labor without ever paying the price for the labor.
It’s like wanting a perfect body without ever stepping foot in a gym — or wanting to date someone with a perfect body without realizing how much time, discipline, and sacrifice it takes to maintain it. People want the result, but not the process.
The effort — the grind, the struggle — is often seen as something shameful, messy, or undesirable. But the truth is, most good things in this world don’t come from a clean, polished place. They come from pain, from dirt, from chaos — from the parts of life we’d rather not look at.
It’s like the lotus flower that blooms in muddy water yet somehow stays untouched. Maybe that’s what life is. Maybe beauty is born not despite the dirt, but because of it.
Results come with effort. And effort isn’t always pretty.
About the author:
I’m Victoria Veles, author of Find Me in Your Dreams — a mystical tale interlacing magic, mystery, and self-discovery. I believe fiction can heal. Through stories and reflections, I explore the hidden layers of being human — the pain, the beauty, and the quiet resilience that comes from learning to face ourselves with compassion. My writing is a journey through the dark places we often avoid, toward the light that’s always waiting to be found.
📖 Find Me in Your Dreams is available on Amazon.
Your piece is very interesting, I think imperfections are fundamental as well as necessary, otherwise human relationships would be mortally boring. Let's read each other if you like, have a beautiful day!