Let’s just take a second to say that again. Louder for those at the back.

Perfection is not real.

It is a lie. A fallacy. Something I have been chasing my whole life, assuming that the fact I hadn’t achieved it yet was because I was lacking.

Nope. Non. Nein. Nac oes. (That one, Welsh, is for Squidge, who loves to learn the language of her homeland.)

I have never believed this before. Not for myself. I have always believed I should be able to do better. I have managed to work on this a lot this year, but still, haven’t been able to shake the feeling that I should be able to do better.

But a conversation with my 6 year-old daughter last night drove it home for me.

We’ve all been ill this week. Everything has been minimal effort. You want to watch TV in your PJs all day? Fine. You don’t fancy eating your 5 a day today? OK. I’m gonna be lying down. Takeaway for dinner again? Hey, we’re eating. Enough is enough when you have nothing else (i.e. energy) to work with.

I was giving Squidge a cuddle before bed, asking how her day had been. “OK.” she told me magnamiously.

“Mummy & Daddy have been a bit grumpy though right? What’s been going on in our world this week that might cause that?”

She thought for a moment and said slowly “Me?”

My heart broke. “Oh honey no! We’re poorly aren’t we, and when you feel rubbish, it can take away your good mood and patience.”

“I thought it was because I hadn’t been… perfect.”

I hugged her tighter. “You listen to me now. Perfect is not a thing. It is not real. It does not exist.”

“But it is a word we use.”

“Yes. It is a describing word. But it is not something we can be. If it is something you try to be, you will never let yourself feel like you can make a mistake. And mistakes are how we learn aren”t they?”

At this point, I’m not sure this conversation was just for my daughter’s ears. My own inner child was listening intently too.

“Practise doesn’t make perfect.” my Squidge answered, invoking our beloved Gabby’s Dollhouse. “It makes better.”

“Exactly. And how can you get better if you don’t feel like you can make mistakes? You do not need to be perfect little one.”

“I need to be more like you?””

“No!” I yelped, horrified. I do not want my daughters to be anything like me. I want more than anything from them to be themselves. “I am not perfect. I need you to know that right now. I am a grown up and I will always help you to be better, but I am not perfect. I will never be and neither will you and that is OK. You do not need to be perfect. All we ever need to be is trying our best. I know you do that, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Squidge smiled.

“Me too. And each day our best is different. Like this week when we’ve been poorly, we’ve had no energy so there’s been lots of tablet time and takeaway. But everyone is safe and has eaten right? That’s good enough when we’re not well. We’ve done our best with what we have and so have you. You have been so helpful and I am so grateful. When we feel better, Mummy will make sure we’re outdoors in the fresh air and eating our 5 a day. That will be my best another day. Does that make sense?”

Squidge nodded. My heart swelled, because I wish someone had had this conversation with me when I was her age, to make my effort feel enough. I constantly felt like I was lacking, or not up to the standard of my able bodied siblings and eventually stopped trying because my effort of any level was barely recognised, much less appreciated. It seemed easier for my overburdened mum just to have me rely on her because she was used to the routine, but by God did it make me feel helpless going into adulthood. I am determined to encourage independence in my daughters so they never feel the same level of helplessness.

“I want you to remember always that you do not need to be perfect. Ever. You only ever need to be….?”

“Me.” Squidge smiled proudly.

“Exactly. And you only ever need to try your best, because that’s all you have. And you are wonderful and I love you so much.”

This was my first realisation of how messages can pass on to others, the power of words. As she trotted off to bed, I felt proud of myself as a parent. I had challenged the ideas that had lived in my own mind my whole life because it wasn’t how I wanted my daughter to live. And by doing so, I was finally accepting that it wasn’t how I deserved to live either. I felt lighter. Ready to do my best.