So I was in therapy, talking with my therapist about my obsessive fear that if I’m not perfect in every way then everyone will hate me. He told an illuminating story about walking with a friend in Central Park and looking up at a tree that at some point in its long life had had a chunk taken out of it or been struck by lightning or something and had therefore grown in a really interesting way.
“The point,” he said, “is that when something is imperfect or marred, it can grow with that fault into a thing of beauty. I mean, you don’t look at a tree and go, ‘Yuck!'”
And I was like, “Speak for yourself, buddy.”