Done is Better than Perfect

Several years ago, I was working on the website for my photography business while also working as Creative Director for an international photography company. I had decided it was time to branch out on my own, and I was trying to build something that belonged entirely to me. It was a bit terrifying. I wanted everything to be right before I put it into the world.

My wise mentor at the time gave me some advice that has stayed with me ever since.

“Done is better than perfect.”

Then he added:

“Done is perfect! Because it’s done.”

I remember laughing a little when he said it. It seemed almost too simple. But I needed to hear it.

Eight years later, I find myself needing the same reminder again.

I have always been someone who can see the finished version of something before I've even begun. I can imagine how it could look, how it could feel, how it could be received. And sometimes that vision becomes so clear that the distance between the thing I imagine and the thing I can make right now feels insurmountable.

So I wait. I refine. I rethink. I research. I make lists. (I love a list!) I tell myself I need a little more time.

Sometimes, if I'm being honest, perfectionism is simply a more attractive name for fear.

I've also learned to question whether fear is always telling me to stop. Sometimes, when I'm nervous about something new, I remind myself: nervous = excited.

The feeling is remarkably similar. My heart is beating faster. I don't know exactly what will happen. I'm stepping into something unfamiliar. Maybe I don't need to decide that those feelings mean I'm making the wrong choice. Maybe they mean I care.

Analogue Alley has brought me face-to-face with that again.

I want to make something beautiful here. For the photographs to feel like me. For the words to be thoughtful. For the website to feel considered rather than rushed. I want to protect the parts of my life that are mine and still find a way to share something meaningful from it.

I am also an introvert, although I don't think that means what people sometimes assume it means. I love my small circle. The people I am close to energize me and fill me up. What wears me out is the constant social energy of strangers, large groups, and a world that sometimes seems to equate having more connections with having a richer life.

I don't need a thousand surface-level friendships. A few authentic, deep ones are enough to fill my heart. 

Privacy is something different. Some things simply feel more meaningful when they remain mine. I don't particularly want to turn my life inside out on the internet in order to have a presence there.

And yet, I have things I want to make.

So I'm trying to find the space between hiding and performing. Between keeping everything private and sharing everything. Between waiting until I feel completely confident and simply beginning.

Maybe that's what this project is really about.

Not perfection. Not constant productivity. Not putting every corner of a life on display.

Just paying attention.

Cooking something because the vegetables in the farm bag look particularly good that week. Setting the table even when there is no special occasion. Choosing a physical book instead of another hour on a screen. Photographing something on film because I like the way the process makes me slow down. Letting my children get bored. Making things with my hands. Wearing the things I love often. Keeping a few beautiful objects because they make ordinary days feel a little more special.

These things don't need to be perfect to be worthwhile. Neither does this.

There is something freeing about realizing that the first version of something is allowed to be a first version.

A photograph can be imperfect and still tell the truth. A meal can be simple and still be worth remembering. A home can be lived-in and still be beautiful. A childhood doesn't have to be perfectly curated to be full of good things.

And perhaps a beginning doesn't need to look like the finished thing.

I am learning to let myself begin before I feel completely ready. To notice when I'm nervous and remember that maybe I'm excited, too. To trust that I don't need to know exactly where something is going before I take the first step.

Eight years ago, I thought “done is better than perfect” was advice about getting something finished. Now I think it is also an invitation to trust yourself enough to let something exist. To put the thing down on paper, to make the photograph, to publish the first post, to start the project, to step into the room before you know exactly what you're going to say.

Done is better than perfect.

Done is perfect.

Because it's done.