Author: John Bellamy

Sometimes when I start something, it has to go the way I want it to go, right down to the very last detail.

For example, when writing this first post, I imagined it being something entirely different. I pictured a different story, different pictures, a great structure, and even the right type of music playing in the background while I wrote. If I had gone with that idea, it probably would have taken much longer to get this post written. Life gets in the way. Distractions happen. Before I knew it, this first post—hopefully the first of many—could have taken days, weeks, or even months before it was ever written.

Call it procrastination or whatever you want, but don’t call it laziness. Not for me. Laziness is far from who I am.

The problem is that I get caught up in the thought of the project, the fascination of it, and all the possibilities of what it could become. I spend so much time imagining the finished product that the actual work never gets done.

For many years, I have wanted to write books, screenplays, and other creative projects. Year after year, I would set goals, come up with new ideas, purchase new software, purchase new hardware, and convince myself I was making progress. Yet somehow, I never seemed to get any closer to the part that mattered most: writing the sentence, then the paragraph, then the page, then completing, editing, and rewriting the work I envisioned.

What Perfection Sounds Like

Perfection is the inner voice that says; “Not ready. Not good enough. Not the right time.” It keeps us waiting for the perfect moment, the perfect plan, or the perfect vision of ourself before we begin.

A friend once told me before the coronavirus pandemic that if I didn’t complete my project – my book – that year, I would never get it done. I remember later thinking, “Did he just put some kind of curse on me?” I know he meant well and was probably trying to encourage me, but as that year passed, and then the next, and the next, nothing completed. It became a battle of will, a determination not to allow his words to become my reality.

Looking back, there were many reasons for the delay. Life happened. Work demanded attention. Family concerns pulled me in different directions. Fear and self-doubt played their part as well. But underneath many of those reasons was something I didn’t fully recognize a the time: perfectionism.

I told myself I was waiting for more time, more clarity, or a better plan. In reality, I was often waiting for the work to feel easier.

I spent a hell of a lot of money playing the lottery. I analyzed past number patterns, experimented with wheeling systems, and even traveled to stores outside the Denver area—and sometimes out of state—in hopes of hitting a jackpot. In my mind, that win would solve everything. I wouldn’t have to work. I could devote myself entirely to writing and pay for the services of some of the most notable writing instructors, people far beyond what I saw advertised in MasterClass ads.

With that lottery win, I would finally have the time and freedom to perfect my craft.

The problem was that reality kept getting in the way of the fantasy.

When I look back, I realize I already had opportunities. I had vacation days set aside for writing. I had ideas. I had notebooks. I had unfinished pages. Yet when those writing days arrived, very little happened. I wasn’t really waiting for money. I wasn’t really waiting for more time. I was waiting for some future version of myself to show up fully formed and worthy enough to begin.

What I failed to see was that perfection had disguised itself as preparation. It convinced me that if I couldn’t do it well enough, I shouldn’t do it at all. The result was not better work—it was no work.

Reflections in the Park

The other day I went walking with my mother in Fred Thomas Park. I make it a priority to spend time with her and enjoy her company. She is ninety-two years old and has several health issues, one of which is dementia.

Over time, I have learned to simply be present with her. To enjoy the sunshine, appreciate the beauty around us, and value her company. I have learned not to look at my watch or replay a list of things I need to get done or would like to do. Just be with her in that moment.

The moment isn’t perfect. There are distractions, worries, and unknowns. Yet it’s real. It’s enough. And it matters.

Nature doesn’t strive for perfection. It doesn’t worry about being enough. It simply exists, beautiful in its own way.

If there is one thing I can leave you with from this writing, it is this: get out into nature as often as you can. Take a walk. Sit beneath a tree. Watch a sunset. And if you’re fortunate enough to do it with someone you love, don’t spend the time wishing the moment were different. Be there for it. One day you’ll realize that what made the moment special was never its perfection—it was your presence.

Redefining “Perfect”

Maybe perfect isn’t flawless. Maybe it’s meaningful, like the moments spent with my mom.

I remember going camping with my son, John Jr. It was his idea, and I thought it was a great one. But nature being nature, it started raining. The fire pit we were counting on had trouble staying lit, and things weren’t going according to plan.

I could see his frustration. What he had imagined as the perfect night was slowly turning into disappointment because of things completely outside of his control. But he didn’t quit.

We took a walk, and during that time I told him how proud I was of him. We talked, laughed, and eventually made the best of the situation. In the end, it turned out to be a great time after all.

Looking back, I don’t remember the rain nearly as much as I remember being there with my son. The night wasn’t perfect, but it was meaningful. And maybe that’s the point. The moments we remember most are often not the flawless ones, but the imperfect ones that remind us what really matters.

Choosing Progress over Perfection

From now on, I’m not waiting for perfect. I’m choosing progress.

Recently, I was listening to Be Your Future Self Now by Benjamin Hardy on Audible. Several ideas in the book caught my attention, but one stood out more than the others. Hardy makes the point that staying on the sidelines may feel safe, but over time it can become one of the greatest sources of regret.

That hit home for me.

For years, I have spent time thinking, planning, researching, dreaming, and preparing. Some of that was necessary. Some of it was valuable. But some of it was simply a way of avoiding the discomfort of beginning.

The truth is that life is not waiting for me to be ready. It is moving forward whether I act or not.

So this post is my reminder to myself as much as it is to anyone reading it. I don’t need the perfect idea, the perfect outline, the perfect software, the perfect music, or the perfect circumstances.

I just need to begin.

And maybe that’s true for you too.

You and I don’t need perfect to be in the game. We just need to start