Editorial Update: Learning to See an Imperfect Person Perfectly
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Here we are, stepping into another chapter. The website has seen some exciting transformations, each change a reflection of growth and possibility. And oh, hasn’t January felt like a season of its own—stretching long, filled with moments both challenging and beautiful? So much is shifting, evolving, and taking shape in ways we never imagined.
As I take in so much of what I have seen on social media recently, I wonder, isn’t it strange? How so many of us let whispers and labels decide for us—whether to love, to trust, to even give someone a chance. How different would the world be if, instead of inheriting opinions, we formed our own—shaped not by gossip, but by experience?
A few months ago, life tested me on this very thing.
After walking away from my marriage, I found myself surrounded by the shattered remnants of who I used to be. I had drawn two firm lines in the sand: no chefs and no alcohol. Having worked as a social media manager for various chefs and was married to one, I had seen enough. I wanted nothing to do with them. Ever.
But life has a way of laughing at our rules.
At the time, I was running a large online community and needed moderators to take shifts. One person volunteered. A chef. When he failed to show up, I was livid. One glance at his profile confirmed my bias. Typical chef behaviour.
Two days later, he apologized. I ignored him. I had already written his story in my mind, and I had no interest in editing it.
Months passed. Life became chaotic. Work consumed me. Then, a message from him:
"I want to write for the magazine. I don’t need anything in return."
I hesitated. The magazine was still finding its footing and needed all the help it could get. But my mind resisted. Out of 1.2 million people in the group, only one stepped forward—expecting nothing, offering kindness. And of all people—a chef.
On June 3rd, he submitted his article. We exchanged a few messages. Then, a missed call.
I stared at it. What does he want? Should I call back? Did he have questions?
Eventually, I did.
"It was a butt dial," he chuckled.
Somehow, we talked for 57 minutes. And for the first time in years, I laughed—really laughed.
Yet a voice inside me screamed: But he’s a chef! No!
Still, one conversation led to another. And another. And another.
And in those moments, I began to see—not just him, but myself. I had spent so long behind walls I thought were protecting me, but they were only keeping me caged. I had let my past define my future, my pain dictated my possibilities.
Twice, the magazine faced storms that threatened to tear it apart. He could have believed the rumours, and sided with the chaos. But he didn’t.
Imagine someone looking at the mess, the drama, the scars, and saying: I choose you. I believe in you. I am proud of you.
For years, I had been screamed at, hit, torn down, and told I was nothing. But here was someone who saw me—really saw me—and whispered, You are everything and more.
And for the first time, I saw myself through his eyes.
How often do we let the worst things we hear about someone define them, without ever stopping to truly see who they are?
Sam Keen once said, "We come to love not by finding a perfect person, but by learning to see an imperfect person perfectly."
So, I challenge you today: The next time you hear something negative about someone, pause. Take a breath. Ask yourself—What good can I see for myself?
Because sometimes, the people we’re most resistant to are the ones who will change our lives in ways we never imagined.