the blank page

The blank page and perfectionism have always traveled together for me. Some days they’re loud. Demanding. Convincing. Other days they hover quietly in the background. Either way, they show up.

And so do I. Even when what I make feels clumsy. Even when I only have ten minutes. Even when it goes nowhere or ends up forgotten in a pile. I keep returning—to the page, the canvas, the practice. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s mine.

Perfectionism doesn’t disappear. That’s a myth. It’s part of the dance. Some days I lead. Some days I stumble. Some days I stop, laugh, and offer myself a little mercy. The goal isn’t mastery—it’s participation.

What matters is the showing up. Each time I put paint on paper or words on the page, I’m keeping a promise. I’m telling myself: you can be trusted. That message lands deeper than any finished product ever could. It reshapes the story I tell about myself.

Showing up is an act of self-care. It’s a refusal to abandon myself just because the work feels messy or uninspired. It’s the steady practice of saying: I’m here. I matter. This is worth my attention.

So this is the invitation. Show up to the page. Or the canvas. Or whatever your practice is. Make bad art. Write awkward sentences. Create without guarantees. Let perfectionism have its say—and then keep going anyway.

That’s the dance. And that’s where the magic lives.