I recently got a new bookshelf. Well, it’s new to me; it is a hand-me-down from my brother. I’m the youngest of four kids, so I’m no stranger to second-hand belongings. Like many of my hand-me-downs, I altered it to feel more like mine; I painted it black to match the rest of my bedroom furniture.

Unfortunately, my DIY skills are sub-par and the final product certainly shows it. There are bumps in the paint and uneven brush strokes that taunt me when the light hits the shelf in a certain way. I forgot to paint one side of the very top of the shelf, and the prospect of dragging out all the supplies again was so unbearable that I ended up leaving the top of the shelf off altogether. My parents, ever the encouragers, called it “shabby chic.” Bless them.

Clearly, the shelf isn’t perfect. The perfectionist in me screams every time I see it. Weirdly enough, however, I love that shelf. I think it’s my favorite part of my bedroom.

The bookshelf doesn’t really fit in with the furniture around it. Sure, it’s the same color and at first glance, it can blend in with the dresser and headboard near it. Look closer, however, and you’ll see the imperfections: the errors in a well-meaning craft project that make it stand out as different against the smooth, glossy paint of its counterparts.

Despite all of the mistakes, the outer frame of the shelf is forgivable; the contents are what really matters. The books, organized alphabetically and placed with care, are the focal point. When I consider all that the books have done for me, the shelf they sit on is trivial.

All too often, I compare myself to the perfect furniture in my life. Everyone around me seems to be smarter, prettier, or more outgoing. But when I’m tempted to compare myself to others, I think about my beloved bookshelf. Standing tall, holding those precious books, flaws and all.