As I’ve grown, I’ve done this weird thing called “mature”. Everyone said it would happen but I always thought they were wrong. In some ways, I still feel very young. It’s my thoughts, however, that have truly matured. Thus, I've begun to reflect on something very specific: being perfect.

The notion is tossed around a lot.

As a child, we have a dream that we will find someone perfect and fall in love. And, as a child, I think we have all sworn that we found that exact person to our parents (or ourselves) at least once. I was one of the stereotypical ones – doodling their crush’s name all over notebook pages or thinking about what my new last name would sound like smushed up against my first.

There’s the idea of a “perfect family” and having a “perfect” friend.

We think this because it is what we are told. The problem is that people say “perfect” but don’t explain what that really means. I have learned that perfect can take many forms. Perfection, in some circumstances, is inherent, like it fits around the situation and finds a way to be there even if it doesn’t seem like a likely place to settle.

My family is perfect.

Not because our family gets along all the time (we don’t), but because we always find a way to forgive and forget.

Not because we are still able to sit down for dinner together (we aren’t), but because we know each person is just a text or phone call away.

Not because we remind each other that we love them (we don’t), but because I have never once questioned if it was true.

My wife is perfect.

Not because we are married (we’re not), but because she is a close enough friend that she puts up with me calling her my wife.

Not because we are always together (we aren’t), but because we can talk like we are never apart.

Not because we always have something to say (we don’t), but because random, funny pictures are enough for us to remind each other of the past decade.

Not because she always says what I want to hear (she never does), but because she is willing to give it to me straight or help me drive myself off a cliff.

My sister is perfect.

Not because we are related (we aren’t), but because she was there for me my entire childhood when I needed her most.

Not because we see each other frequently (we don’t), but because years of separation can’t stop a reunion from being warm and welcoming.

Not because she always agrees with me (she doesn’t), but because we agree on what matters and the rest figures itself out.

My roommates are perfect.

Not because we all get along (we don’t), but because an inside joke can always bring us back together.

Not because everyone always cleans up after themselves (we don’t), but because someone else is always willing to help out.

Not because we all like the same things (we don’t), but because we are all willing to get involved with what the other people like.

And not because we are all quiet (we’re not), but because we are willing to listen and adjust.

It took me a long time to get to where I could see all this.

Just because my family wasn’t always agreeing, my wife wasn’t always supportive, my sister wasn’t always there, and I didn’t always get along with my roommates doesn’t mean that those relationships weren’t perfect. It is my new belief that perfection involves seeing everything that is wrong and realizing that the flaws are part of what makes the dynamic work so well. It’s not the problems that ruin a relationship.

It’s how all of the people involved decide to view the issue.