I know I’m not perfect. That truth rings in my ears louder than any praise I’ve ever received. It’s not bitterness that compels me to speak; it’s clarity. I’ve walked through life with shoes too small and paths too steep, and still, I walked. I stumbled, I fell, I got up with scrapes no one saw. And maybe that’s the heart of it—no one saw.
People talk about blessings like they’re gifts from above, wrapped in golden ribbons—opportunities, love, a gentle word when it’s needed most. But not all of us were handed those packages. Some of us had to build from scraps what others were simply given. Some of us had to imagine warmth from cold silences.
This isn’t a pity story. This is reality—the kind that doesn’t get framed on Instagram or softened in a motivational quote. This is the story of someone who knows their flaws intimately, who has faced the mirrors and the metaphors, who has listened to the silence after screaming into the void.
I’m not perfect. I overthink. I push people away before they can leave. I mistrust kindness because it rarely comes without a hidden cost. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve said things I wish I could unsay. I’ve held onto pain longer than I should have, not because I enjoy suffering, but because pain was the only thing that ever stayed.
And yet, I don’t ask for perfection in return. All I ever wanted—quietly, maybe even unconsciously—was a blessing. A sign. A hand on my shoulder saying, “You’re doing okay. Keep going.” But that blessing never came.
I watched others receive love as if it were oxygen, freely given. They didn’t have to earn it with perfection. They didn’t have to become anything other than what they were. Meanwhile, I shaped myself into what the world demanded—smart, quiet, hardworking, agreeable—hoping that if I just got it right, someone would notice. Someone would bless me.
But no one ever did.
When I say “no one blessed me,” I don’t mean it in the religious sense. I mean no one affirmed me. No one made me feel seen in a way that stuck. There were kind words, sure, but fleeting. A smile here, a compliment there. But not the kind of deep, resounding affirmation that tells you: you are enough, even if you never become more than this.
Instead, I learned to find worth in striving. Maybe if I excelled, they’d notice. Maybe if I helped enough, sacrificed enough, proved myself enough, someone would say, “You deserve peace now. You’ve earned rest.”
But perfection is a mirage. And worse, the more I tried to chase it, the more invisible I became. Because people only notice perfection when it fails. Otherwise, they assume you’re fine. Strong. Capable. Self-sufficient. And they don’t think to bless the strong. They think strength is the blessing.
It isn’t.
Strength is often the armor we wear because we know no one’s coming to save us. It’s the survival skill we’ve refined to protect our softest parts. But inside that armor, we’re still just people. People who bleed, ache, yearn. People who wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s someone out there who will love them not for what they do, but simply for existing.
I used to envy people who cried in public, who asked for help, who broke down when life got heavy. Because they assumed someone would catch them. And more often than not, someone did. But for me, vulnerability always felt dangerous. Like taking off my armor would just invite the arrows in. So I kept it on, hoping someone might still see me under all the steel.
They never did.
Still, I try. I try every day to be a good person. To hold the door. To listen when someone speaks. To smile when I’d rather withdraw. I try to be someone who blesses, even though I’ve never been blessed myself. Maybe that’s my rebellion—offering to others what no one gave me. Or maybe it’s my hope—that in giving, I might finally receive.
But the truth is, giving without receiving leaves you empty eventually. You start to question your worth. You start to wonder if you’re doing something wrong. Why does love feel like a reward for others, but a test for me? Why does everyone else seem to have a safety net while I walk a tightrope alone?
And yet, I don’t blame the world completely. I know I have rough edges. I can be guarded, sarcastic, impatient. My trust isn’t easily won, and I don’t always say the right thing. But isn’t that what it means to be human? To be a mosaic of broken and beautiful? To be flawed, yet deserving?
I suppose that’s what hurts most. That somewhere along the way, I was convinced my flaws disqualified me from affection. That because I wasn’t perfect, I wasn’t worthy. And the world, with its silence, confirmed that fear.
But I’m learning—slowly—that perfection isn’t a prerequisite for love. That worth isn’t measured in achievements or sacrifices. That I don’t need to bleed to prove I’m alive. And that maybe, just maybe, the blessing I’ve been waiting for isn’t coming from the outside.
Maybe the blessing is learning to bless myself.
It sounds cliché, I know. The whole “love yourself” mantra has been repeated so much it feels like background noise. But for someone who never felt chosen, learning to choose yourself is a radical act. It’s not easy. It feels unnatural, even selfish at first. But maybe the most sacred thing we can do is become the blessing we always longed for.
So here’s what I’m trying:
I’m trying to speak to myself with kindness, even when the inner critic shouts louder.
I’m trying to sit with my imperfections without trying to fix them right away.
I’m trying to honor the child I was—the one who waited for someone to say, “You matter”—by saying it now, to the adult I’ve become.
I’m trying to be the voice that says: “You don’t have to earn love. You are love.”
And maybe, if I do this enough, I’ll stop waiting for someone else to bless me. Maybe I’ll stop measuring my worth by the absence of praise and start seeing value in the quiet persistence of my journey.
I still wish someone had blessed me when I was younger. I wish someone had held my hand during the hard nights and whispered, “You’re not alone.” But even without that, I’ve survived. I’ve built a life. I’ve laughed, cried, created, failed, loved.
I’m not perfect. But I’m real.
And maybe real is better than perfect.
Because real knows how to sit with pain without turning away. Real understands what it means to long for connection and still keep showing up. Real isn’t polished or pristine—it’s honest. It’s resilient. It’s enough.
So if no one ever blessed you either—if you’ve gone through life wondering why your worth wasn’t affirmed—I want you to hear this:
You are not broken. You were simply never told you were whole.
Let that be your blessing.
Let this be your beginning.
