Connection Over Perfection

This chapter is written more like the chapters in my book. :)

The day had been long, messy, and exhausting, but by the evening, I knew something had to change. Not the chaos outside, not the endless to-do lists, not the responsibilities that pull at me from every direction—but us. My niece and I needed time, real time—two hours carved out from the whirlwind of life where we could be present with each other.

I found her in the living room, curled up on the couch, headphones dangling around her neck, her game still paused on the TV screen. I took a deep breath and sat down beside her. There was a moment of hesitation—hers and mine—where the weight of all we carried hung silently in the air. Then I began.

“I want to apologize,” I said softly. “I know sometimes I get frustrated, and I don’t always handle it well. I say things I regret. I’m still healing from a lot, and sometimes I… I let that spill over.”

Her eyes flicked up to mine, cautious but curious. She didn’t interrupt. She just listened. And so I continued, slower this time, letting the words sink between us. “I want you to know, you’re not the problem. None of this is your fault. You deserve so much more than the moments when I falter. But I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

A pause. Her fingers twisted the edge of the blanket she was wrapped in. Her gaze lowered, then rose again. The silence was heavy, but not uncomfortable—it was safe.

“I also want to share some of my past with you,” I said. “Things that have shaped me, things that sometimes make me react in ways I don’t like. I need you to understand that when I get frustrated, it’s not about you—it’s the triggers of my own pain.”

She nodded, tiny, almost imperceptible movements, but enough for me to know she was with me. Then, slowly, she began to speak. Her voice trembled at first, soft and hesitant. “I… I don’t really know much about life,” she admitted. “I don’t know how to handle things, or do anything at all really.”

I felt my chest tighten. How could I not? She was so young, carrying so much, yet bravely admitting what she didn’t know. “You’re learning,” I said gently. “And I’m here to help you learn. I can’t make everything perfect, but I can be honest with you. I can show up, even when it’s messy.”

Her words came faster now, spilling out fragments of memory—her mother, the grandparents who raised her, flashes of her earliest years, moments she barely remembered but carried like tiny stones in her pockets. And I listened. Not as someone offering solutions, not as someone who knew better, but as someone who wanted to hold her story without judgment.

I shared mine in return, carefully. The past of my childhood, my struggles with trauma, the patterns I worked hard to break, the mistakes I still make. And slowly, we began to connect the dots—our histories, though different, mirrored each other in ways that felt profound. Shared resilience, shared pain, shared hope.

At times, we laughed—quiet, small chuckles at something in the movie we paused to start talking. At other times, tears threatened to spill, and we let them. I reached out once, and she leaned into my shoulder, a fleeting gesture that spoke volumes. In that moment, words weren’t necessary—the comfort, the presence, was enough.

I reminded her gently, again and again, that she is not alone. That she is loved, fiercely and unconditionally, by someone who will continue to show up, even when it’s hard. That her worth is not defined by the chaos around her, or by my imperfections, or by the brokenness of the past. That she has the right to learn, to explore, to grow, to stumble, and to rise again—without shame, without fear or hard judgement and criticism.

By the time we resumed the movie, the room had changed. It wasn’t perfect—there were still little noises, the cats prowling in the background, the hum of the fridge—but it felt like a sanctuary. We laughed more freely, our earlier heaviness softened by shared understanding. When the credits rolled, we didn’t rush away. We stayed, side by side, letting the quiet linger a little longer.

As we got ready for bed, I held onto a few truths: I am not perfect. I will falter. I am not always easy to live with. But I am here. I will continue to show up, to apologize, to reflect, to love. And she, in turn, can hold herself with the knowledge that she is seen, that she is heard, that she is not navigating this world alone.

Some days feel impossible. Some days demand more than one person can give. But some days—like today—remind me why I keep going. Not for accolades, not for validation, not for perfection—but for connection. For trust. For love that persists even in the middle of chaos, exhaustion, and imperfection.

Two hours cannot erase a lifetime of pain. But two hours can create a space where someone feels safe enough to be vulnerable, brave enough to speak, and loved enough to know they are not alone. And sometimes, that—two hours of connection, honesty, and presence—is enough to carry us forward, together, into the next impossible day.

Poetry Collection: Some Days Aren't About Perfection - They're About Connection