May 6, 2025
I was listening to a journalist describe what it’s like to write a weekly column. He said it’s a strange rhythm—trying to bring your best every time, knowing it’ll never be perfect, and still having to hit the deadline. That tension, he said, becomes the shape of the work. And it got me thinking: maybe that’s also the shape of a life.
Life doesn’t wait for us to be perfect. It hands us a deadline, drops the downbeat, or calls everyone to the table—and we have to show up as we are, with what we’ve prepared, ready or not.
Some people have learned this rhythm well. A columnist, pressed by the ticking clock, does their best thinking under pressure, knowing the words won’t be flawless but must be true enough to print. A musician, stepping onstage, carries long hours of practice into a single take, trusting that presence and connection matter more than polish. A cook at a holiday meal finally puts down the spoon, wipes their hands, and calls the family to gather—knowing not everything turned out just right, but still hoping it will nourish and bring people together.
And a parent, faced with questions they don’t always know how to answer, with emotions they didn’t expect, and with days that rarely go to plan, still shows up. Not perfect, not all-knowing—but present, consistent, trying. That, too, is a kind of offering.
Each of these moments is a mirror of life: we try, we aim high, and we arrive incomplete. But we show up. And the act of showing up, with our imperfect offerings, is often what makes the difference. Not because it’s ideal, but because it’s real, and it’s shared.
The contours of tomorrow aren’t shaped by perfection. They’re shaped by action—by the decision to step in, speak up, cook the meal, play the note, meet the moment. Not because everything is ready, but because the moment has arrived, and we’re in it.
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