Perfectly Imperfect
Notes on Becoming More Myself in Paris
Sundays have become my favorite day. The city slows down, and the rhythm changes. I visit the farmers market, buy myself fresh flowers, and pick up whatever I’m cooking for the next few days. Since most places are closed on Sundays and Mondays, you either plan or you pause. I’ve learned to do both.
This morning, on the way to the fishmonger, I found myself humming “Le Poisson” from the original Little Mermaid. The 1989 version.
Something about the rows of fish on ice, the man in the striped apron expertly deboning a trout—it just did something to me. “Hee hee hee, honh honh honh.” Ridiculous, I know. But I’ve been leaning into these little moments, letting them bring me joy. I’m noticing more. Laughing more. Finding pockets of pleasure in the ordinary. Not because Paris is magical; but because I’m allowing it to be.
I’ve had the duck breast at Brasserie Martin two more times since last writing about it—clearly, I’m a little addicted. But on Friday night, I finally decided to make it myself. I wanted to recreate the sauce I’d fallen in love with, but I wasn’t about to build a whole pantry just to chase one flavor. So I used what I had. I made something of my own. And you know what? It turned out beautifully. Not because it was perfect, but because I embraced the moment—and let go of the need to get it exactly right.
The same thing happened when I made a shrimp broth, hoping to turn it into a comforting bowl of udon. I was craving something savory and soul-soothing. But it didn’t make sense to buy soy sauce, sesame oil, and a dozen other ingredients just to engineer the flavor I had in my head. So I worked with what I had. And what I had was enough.
Perfection isn’t a fixed outcome. It’s a practice. A way of showing up. Because sometimes, the perfection is in the imperfection—not in how closely it matches the idea, but in how fully it honors the moment.
It means going to the butcher down the street, the grocer around the corner, the boulangerie where the grandmère insists on speaking to you in French even though she speaks perfect English—because she knows you can learn it, and wants to help you try.
It’s about figuring out how to make something beautiful using what’s available.
And maybe that’s where the meaning lives—not in control, but in the quiet willingness to meet yourself where you are.
Not to become someone new.
But to become more of myself.
The artist. The writer. The free spirit I’ve always been.
Paris hasn’t transformed me—but it’s made room.
Room to take up space, even if that space is just inside my apartment.
Room to listen to my own rhythm, to follow instinct over itinerary, to make the thing even if it’s not perfect. To choose myself, moment by moment.
Lately, I’ve been stretching myself in other ways, too.
I’ve started going out again—not in some dramatic reinvention, but as a gentle return to myself. I’ve always loved a good night out: a drink, some music, a mood. But I’d fallen out of rhythm in general—especially after the fires, moving in with my dad, and becoming a student again. So much of the past year has been about navigating change, survival, and stillness. Joy had to wait its turn.
And then there’s the weather. I don’t do rain. I’m from L.A.—the land of perpetual sunshine, where the weather shapes your mindset, where a grey sky basically means staying home in your jammies. But Paris asks for a different kind of flexibility. You go out anyway.
So I did. I put on real shoes, grabbed an umbrella, and made a night of it.
And I’m glad I did. I had a few drinks, listened to good music, and ended up meeting people. I widened the edges of my little Parisian world. I even have a date—or maybe two—lined up. But that’s a story for another post.
What I’m learning is this: when you stay open, the world opens too. Not always in dramatic ways, but in small, necessary ones. Enough to remind you that your life is still in motion. That you’re allowed to return to the parts of yourself that bring joy. Even when it’s raining. Even when you weren’t planning on it.
That same spirit—of opening, of returning to yourself—was mirrored in a powerful way when I visited Paris Noir at the Centre Pompidou.
The exhibition highlights the work of Black artists—many American, some Caribbean—who came to Paris between the two World Wars to live, create, and be fully themselves. They didn’t come here to escape. They came to be seen. To expand. To exist without having to constantly explain or defend that existence. To step into a version of themselves that wasn’t possible back home.
And that’s the thread between us.
People here have told me I’m brave—for coming alone, for staying so long, for choosing to pursue something new in what others might call the middle of my life. I hadn’t thought of it as brave. But maybe it is.
Maybe it is brave to step away from what’s familiar, even when it’s functional. To walk into a city where you don’t speak the language, don’t have a built-in network, and trust that you’ll figure it out anyway.
Like the artists in Paris Noir, I’m choosing to be fully myself. Not because I know exactly what comes next, but because I want to make room for all of me. The artist. The writer. The woman who no longer needs permission to take up space.
Even if no one else understands the path I’m taking—
I do.
And honestly, that’s enough.
I still have a little time left here in Paris. A few more exhibitions to see, a few more walks to take, maybe a few more duck breasts to make. There are people I haven’t met yet, conversations still waiting to unfold, impressions I hope to leave—subtle but lasting. I’m not trying to do it all. I’m just trying to do it well. To stay present. To stay open.
To pause long enough to notice the beauty in the imperfection.
To remember that perfection is a practice.
To keep choosing myself, in all the small, everyday ways that add up to a life.
And to remember that becoming more of myself was always the point.