Call me crazy, but I think maybe I have figured out the secret to a happy life.

I have decided to embrace progress, not perfection.

After 51 years of research on the subject, and a firm grasp of the obvious, it appears I will not be able to achieve anything close to perfection in this lifetime. Actually, I don’t think perfection is the right word to describe the struggle. I don’t mean robot-like, Stepford Wife perfection, a clearly ridiculous and unappealing goal. But the more I think about the things which keep me stuck, the more I realize I have secretly harbored an unrealistic vision of what being a grown up looks like. I expected a certain completeness, a sense of having arrived at the final version of me. Ta da! Here I am, world! I had hoped by now to have achieved a clarity of calling, the right balance of work and play, healthy relationships with food, my body, my family, my friends, my money, my colleagues, the Church and God. Check, check, check. All done! Yay Team!

The problem really begins when I interpret anything less than this utopian ideal to be failure.

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