Imperfect Perfection.

She was a girl who knew how to be happy even when she was sad. And that’s important. -Marilyn Monroe

I have a love/hate relationship with the intensity of my emotions. The face flush from an accidental too many words or the stars in your soul when you can relate to someone or something, somehow unexpectedly. Goosebumps. Runaway heartbeat. A bead of anxious sweat falling down the center of your chest while you try to hold it together. Dabbing your upper lip while hiding your guilty grin. Feeling claustrophobic on the street corner when the only thing touching you is the wind. Crying. For someone else and their pain.

My copy of  ‘My Week with Marilyn’ is sitting in front of me on my kitchen counter for a friend to pick up. I remember seeing it in the theatre after a few days of unexpected transitions, meetings, praise, distractions and baby steps. Growth is an addicting kind of painful. It has left stretch marks on my brain yet stretched my smile, sometimes at the exact same time. As I watched this powerful woman on the screen only feeling comfortable caped in her hollywood persona, I related. In a career type way. I was told earlier that day I saw the movie that I had found my nook on camera and I hadn’t realized anything had changed. It really doesn’t matter what or why it changed. I did however realize that I finally trusted that everything sitting atop of my size eight feet was enough. Coming from an acting background where you absolutely tap into personal experiences yet cover the truth with an artificial passport, it was an adjustment to break. I roll in and out but I now know that no script, alternative name, blond wig or background that isn’t my real life works is needed. Just me. That’s enough. -k


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