I've always loved gold jewelry. From the minute I outgrew my plastic dress up jewelry, I set my sights on something better, that something was gold. The way gold jewelry twinkled in the light caught my eye, drawing me in. I loved how it complimented my complexion and completed each outfit of mine.
My mom always wore gold jewelry. I would spend hours digging through her jewelry box and trying on her pieces. I would hold my hair up as fastened the delicate jewelry around my neck. My face would light up as I felt the cold weight on my skin. In a way, my love for gold jewelry was just another thing I inherited from my mother—another aspect that brought us closer.
Each morning, when my hands fumble on the clasps of my favorite gold Kendra Scott necklace and bracelet, their weight against my skin serves as a reminder of so much more.
To me, gold has always represented a level of perfection. From its long-lasting beauty to its sense of rarity, gold remains the perfect metal. My association of gold with perfection traces back to the Olympics. Every two years, I watch athletes eagerly jump up on the top podium and bow their heads to receive the prize in which they have trained their entire lives for: a gold medal. Not a silver one, not a bronze one, but a gold medal. Seeing the athletes bite into their gold medals ingrained in me the belief that gold is the ultimate symbol of perfection and nothing more.
I’ve struggled with perfectionism my whole life. My perfectionism is an old, unwelcome acquaintance that has rooted itself in my brain. It's a constant voice in the back of my mind, pestering me about if I used the right words in my article or about the flyaways that keep escaping my ponytail. In moments when the voice of my perfectionism drowns everything else out, I find myself fidgeting with my gold necklace. The weight of it lays heavy on my chest as questions flood my mind. Am I worthy enough to wear gold? Have I earned it? How can I proudly wear this perfect metal when I don’t even feel close to perfect?
The thing about perfectionism is the stronger it plagues you, the farther you feel from perfect. It forces you to work, and work, and work until you finally complete something just right. By the time you’ve completed it perfectly, however, you are so completely drained and exhausted. The fact that it took you so long to complete it to perfection makes you feel like an absolute failure. My perfectionism has left me exhausted by even my strongest passions in life, as it has rooted itself within each project I take on.
I have spent countless hours hunched over my laptop, my eyes burning and my back aching as my sentences remain unfinished. Over and over, I type out sentences and delete them just as quickly, vanishing the words before my eyes. Writing has always been one of my favorite endeavors but that nagging voice in the back of my head always reminds me that I can reword a sentence or find a better word. Perfectionism leaves me insecure about my writing, no matter how many high marks I receive for essays or how much praise I get from loved ones. So, I write and write and write, with perfectionism always present—a phantom behind me, breathing down my neck. It’s only when my fingers stop typing that I am finally left with a sense of quiet for mere seconds. But it never lasts long. My eyes always wander back to my work, and the cycle begins again.
It’s taken a long time to quiet that voice of perfectionism.
Two years ago, in the heat of the summer, I packed my bag and went to swim practice. Along with my bathing suit, cap and goggles, I wore one of my favorite gold necklaces around my neck. Throughout the practice, I was plagued by this voice telling me to kick harder or angle my arm better so that it entered the surface of the water smoother. By the time the practice ended, I was exhausted both mentally and physically.
It wasn’t until I arrived back home and showered that I finally knew something was wrong. My hand instinctively went to my neck, fingers frantically searching for my necklace that wasn’t there. I immediately jumped in the car and drove back to the pool, my heart pounding in my chest.
I walked circles around the pool, searching desperately for my necklace. I had almost given up when I heard a tiny voice from the shallow end of the pool shout out, “I got it!” A young girl proudly held my beloved necklace up above the surface of the water. I ran over to her, thanking her profusely, as she handed it to me.
When I looked down at the pool of gold in my hand, I noticed that it was no longer whole. The clasp had broken, along with one of the chains. My golden necklace—the one I had once questioned whether I was worthy enough to wear—had broken.
Standing there at the pool, clutching my broken necklace, I learned an important lesson. Even the things we deem perfect are not inherently perfect. Although gold is considered the perfect metal, it still can break and shatter, still scuff and be damaged. I have finally started to realize that if gold doesn’t have to be perfect then neither do I.
Now, when I wear my gold jewelry, I am reminded of growth rather than a pursuit of perfection. I am reminded of how far I’ve come and how I have been able to succeed despite how critical of myself I can be. I am reminded of the little girl who loved trying on her mother’s jewelry. And slowly, I am becoming the girl again who felt worthy enough to wear gold.
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