A Society That Says It’s Okay Not to Be Perfect

A Society That Says It’s Okay Not to Be Perfect

Whenever a new revolution emerges, old systems tend to collapse.
But in the midst of such technological shifts and societal pressures, I hope that art remains like a star that shines in the dark sky—quiet, distant, but always there, reminding us of our humanity.

I once lived in Germany for an extended period of time. After years of living abroad, I began to notice something wrong with my body.
It turned out to be my thyroid. One day, my heart was racing at nearly 200 beats per minute. I was sweating just sitting still, breathless as if I had just run a marathon.

Barely able to stand, I made my way to the hospital.
While I sat in the waiting room, tears started falling without warning.
Looking back now, I realize I would have handled it differently. I’ve been trained by life abroad, shaped by experience, and tempered by a kind of calm acceptance. But at the time, I was young.

I missed home. I began to wonder why I was living in a foreign country at all.
Lost in melancholy, I sat there silently, overwhelmed by illness and loneliness. All I wanted was to go home as soon as possible.
But that hospital was different.

Unlike other medical settings filled with posters, charts, and warning signs, this one was decorated like a small gallery. Beautiful abstract paintings hung on the walls, softening the sterile atmosphere.
I remember thinking, “Maybe the doctor is Italian—he must have a sense for aesthetics.”
As I looked at the artwork, something unexpected happened. The paintings comforted me.
On the coffee table was a catalog, filled with information about the artwork displayed in the hospital.

Its title caught my eye. In German, it read: Niemand ist perfekt — “Nobody is perfect.”
Curious, I began to flip through the pages, and before I knew it, I was fully immersed.
The book was a collection of paintings and stories, each one exploring the idea that understanding and accepting our imperfections is deeply important.
I found it surprising that such a book would be placed in a hospital, and yet, it felt like it belonged there.
I read the entire book while waiting, absorbed in the message that true peace and freedom come from recognizing that we are fragile, unstable, and imperfect beings.

When it was finally my turn, the doctor asked where I was from. “Korea,” I answered.
He then gently asked if I had eaten a lot of seaweed or seafood in Korea. I realized I had eaten it almost daily—but rarely since moving to Germany.
He explained that a sudden change in diet and environment could cause temporary thyroid symptoms like the ones I was experiencing.
Unlike many doctors who rely strictly on lab numbers and tend to frighten patients, this doctor reassured me with kindness and clarity, calming my anxious mind.
Surprisingly, after that visit, I noticed something shift. I stopped worrying. And soon, my condition began to improve.

Through that experience, I came to a realization:
The pressure to be perfect--to always perform, to never fail, to meet unrealistic expectations—can make us sick.
It’s only when we recognize our own limitations and release that constant pressure that we begin to truly relax, enjoy life, and heal.
And in this realization, I also discovered something profound about art.
In a world obsessed with perfection, art reminds us that it is precisely our imperfections that make us human, free, and capable of joy.
Art does not demand perfection. It welcomes mistakes, vulnerability, and experimentation—and in doing so, it offers us comfort.

We live under tremendous pressure. I meet people all the time who are struggling under stress—myself included.

Constant competition, unpredictable changes, and societal expectations can feel suffocating.
In such a world, it’s not easy to laugh freely and live slowly.
Society pushes people to be perfect. It roars that if you are not perfect, you will be left behind.
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But we must remember: Humans were never meant to be perfect.
The sooner we accept this truth, the freer and more compassionate our lives—and our world—will become.

​Every time I draw, I suddenly think about it.

Can art be a true comfort in this suffocating world that demands perfection?
In an atmosphere where everything is lacking, where you always have to improve, and where even mistakes are not tolerated,
Can art make all that stop for a moment?

Can a single painting, with its light and color, lines and margins, really comfort a person’s heart?

And I always come to the same answer.

“That’s why art is all the more comforting.”

Art doesn’t have to be perfect.

Even the more imperfect it is, the more human, truthful, and warm it is.

The blurred lines, the blurred colors, the rough proportions, and even the silent margins in a painting
are, in and of themselves, a space for the viewer to breathe, empathize, and rest.

No matter how much the world rushes toward perfection,
Art whispers to people,
“It’s okay, you are enough as you are.”

So today, I want to draw a picture that is not a perfect picture, but a picture with real heart. I hope that through the picture, someone will stop for a moment, catch their breath, and be comforted.
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Can art bring healing in a perfection-driven world? This personal essay reflects on the emotional power of painting and how embracing imperfection through creativity offers peace, empathy, and inner freedom.