the myth of an infallible human

i am a constellation of mistakes, stitched together with curiosity. i misstep, i forget, i ache—and still i rise. every day begins with the same quiet truth: i will not get everything right, and that is the heartbeat of being alive.

being human is not a vow of perfection; it is the art of bending without breaking, of learning the music inside the stumble. the world teaches us to chase flawlessness, to polish every edge until nothing real remains. but the soul does not thrive in a glass case. it thrives in the dirt, in the mess, in the tender chaos of trying again.

every flaw is a compass, every regret a breadcrumb, each scar humming a quiet hymn of survival. the moments i thought were failures have been the lanterns guiding me back to myself. when i broke, i discovered strength that had been hiding in the cracks. when i fell, i found the shape of my own resilience waiting to catch me.

to call myself infallible is not to claim i never fall. it is to declare that falling does not end me. i am the river that overflows and still carves valleys, the wildflower that blooms through asphalt, the night sky that holds both storm and starlight. infallibility is not a spotless record—it is the refusal to let imperfection define the story.

so i will keep moving, keep blooming, keep proving that the beauty of being human is in the endless tender rise. i will embrace the awkward silences, the sudden detours, the days when everything feels undone. i will trust that each breath is a chance to begin again.

in the end, being human is the bravest thing i will ever do.

with ink + bloom, 🌻