Done, Not Perfect: Writing, Hope, and Letting Go

From Stone to Soil: Letting Go of Perfectionism

Perfectionism sits heavy in me, like a stone I keep trying to drop. Hard, unyielding, and weighted with self-doubt, disappointment, and resentment.

But when I release it—when I make space for something new—it changes. That stone becomes soil, fertile enough for a seed to take root and rise.

The Practice of Imperfection

Years ago, I began to write “Done. Not perfect.” whenever I finished a Field Notes book. Therapy taught me the phrase. Simple words, but powerful. A reminder that completion, not perfection, clears the path forward.

My notebooks are full of raw writing and emotions. I write to get things out of my head, to wrestle with problems, to practice. Like an athlete, I train in the margins. Sometimes, when I flip through old pages, I cringe; other times, I cry.

When the Inner Critic Speaks

I also hear the voice of sabotage: “I’m not good enough. I can’t do this. I’m stupid. There’s not enough time. Maybe I should just quit.” The pages hold those words, too. And yet—I keep filling them. Because even in the mess, there are sparks.

Sometimes I stumble on a line that steadies me. Recently, I found this: “To live without hope is to cease to live.” It struck me—not as philosophy, but as proof of what’s kept me writing.

Finding Hope in Unexpected Places

Hope, for me, has feathers—Emily Dickinson’s kind. It keeps me creating, seeking meaning. The Japanese call it ikigai: a reason to live. Writing has always been mine.

Welcoming Every Emotion: Wisdom from Rumi

Rumi, in The Guest House, urges us to welcome all emotions, even the painful ones, as honored guests. They are temporary, yet each carries its own message, clearing space—like stones turned to soil—for new possibilities to take root.

A Trail of Hope That Took Root

When I look back at last year’s notes, I see a trail of hope that’s taken root:

• A wish to join a beta reader group. A year later, I have one.
• A hope my typewriter would work again. It does—and I use it often.
• A hope my hand would hurt less. With new medication, it does.
• A hope my son would thrive in school. Now he’s a Syracuse grad student covering men’s soccer.

Done, Not Perfect: Seeds for What Comes Next

Hope turned into reality, step by step. Done, not perfect.

And so I keep writing, keep planting, keep releasing—because every seed of hope grows best in soil freed from perfection’s weight.