I scroll through my phone like everyone else. I see the world filtered and duckfaced like every other woman does. And sometimes I’m almost convinced that’s real.

But it’s not.

The curated lives we see every day are fake. The perfect angles, the perfect outfits, the perfect lighting. That’s not reality. What is real are imperfections. What builds character and toughness is struggle. What makes us better and more human is attempting something, coming up short, and then trying it again.

But for women the rules seem different.

Men get the luxury of being able to specialize. Women are expected to be perfect at everything.

Am I good girlfriend? Am I a perfect mom? Am I the best athlete? Am I wearing white after Labor Day? Am I dressed in the right brands? Am I dieting right? Am I manicured, blown-out and tanned?

These little constant quests for perfection start pecking away at our attention. Perfect never leaves room for improvement. And perfect never lets us focus on what’s really out there for us to achieve.

When we worry about perfection, our bigger goals are sacrificed. We can’t look up, work hard and kick ass. But having the confidence to ignore the perfection around us can be difficult.

When I was growing up in North Dakota, before my family moved to Los Angeles, I was a tomboy. I wore jeans and a white T-shirt, but not the sexy kind. I wore it because I loved to run, jump, and play. Dresses got in the way of that.

Then we moved to L.A., where I was a complete outsider. I went to a predominantly Spanish-speaking school, and never really fit in. My confidence sank faster than I care to admit.

And like most girls, although women rarely talk about it, these feelings came to a boiling point when I stood in front of the mirror, looked at my changing body that I didn’t really recognize anymore, and cried.