If I really believe that my timing is perfect, maybe the thing that’s perfect is my denial about my timing. And if that’s the case, maybe now is the perfect time to be honest about that.

I don’t wish for a perfect life, for in doing so I will have discarded the tremendous opportunities for great good that lay hidden in the greatest bad.

Pain dutifully reminds me that the world is terribly imperfect, but it faithfully helps me appreciate the world on those days when it’s a little closer to being perfect.

It might not be about perfection. Rather, it may be that that which is imperfect is that which has the most character.