At first, I believed that being perfect was the best and only thing to impress myself and others. It was my one goal in life and the only thing I strived for, perfection. The concept of it was so indulging, so sweetly bitter. I once equated perfection with happiness. But I was wrong. Perfection means striving for something impossible, something out of my reach. Attempting to reach perfection meant that the journey I took was filled with long lonely nights, no close friends, and the feeling that I was failing at life. None of the emotions I felt were happy, not even neutrally close. That was when I realized that perfection was a concept, not a reality. To be perfect means different things to different people, for me it meant to be completed, to belong. That was when my values and ideas changed from wanting an unrealistic ideal to a realistic motive. That was my turning point, I realized I want to be complete, not perfect.