Flawed Beauty -- creative nonfiction by Aleena Charles

Snap. The eraser crumbles under the pressure on my hand, scattering tiny little uneven rubber fragments across the page like the remains of lost hope. Break. No matter how hard I rub my eraser against the paper, the words stay—taunting me, reminding me that no matter what I do, I can’t undo what’s already been done. Tear. The sound of ripping paper is quite familiar—like the comfort of an old friend—keeping me company throughout these late-night study sessions. Sitting at my cluttered table, surrounded by stacks of notes, drafts, and homework—basically, you name it—I once again grabbed a new sheet of clean paper. Each time I made a mistake, I reached out for my eraser— once a pristine white block, now bears the scars of countless hours spent rubbing away at mistakes. Its edges, softened by my relentless grip, brush across the page, leaving behind a trail of graphite dust as ephemeral as the fleeting ideas I strive to capture. As I erased a particularly stubborn line, the graphite wisps dissolved into the paper, leaving only subtle traces of the words that were once there. Erasers are designed to erase imperfections, but did that mean mistakes were entirely erased, or did they merely leave subtle traces beneath the surface? I continued to wear down the paper, but no matter how much I erased, the lingering traces never disappeared. Faded? Yes. But never completely gone.

Since elementary school, the “Be yourselves” posters, and the “Be kind to yourselves” assemblies have filled our classrooms, with adults constantly telling us to accept who we are and to look at our imperfections as a way to grow. Yet, when our society holds up unattainable standards of beauty, of success, of perfection—we tell ourselves to feel content about what we have, but more often than not we find ourselves measuring up to an ideal that is out of reach. Each time I go to the mirror, each time I take a look at myself, each time someone else’s gaze meets mine critically, I confront a reflection and a reality that is less than perfect. Perhaps it’s the way my face looks in the mirror or the fact that my curly hair doesn’t fall in perfect straight waves like that one model on T.V. Just as the eraser removes marks from the paper, we might wish for a tool to erase our perceived shortcomings, to smooth out the rough edges of our self-image, or to correct the errors we see in ourselves. Yet, the mirror—and our reflections—serve a different purpose. Maybe we are looking at it in a way that misses our chance to see ourselves not as how someone else perceives us but as how we perceive ourselves. If we all look the same as one another, then who is to judge what beauty is? How would we differentiate from one another? The answer is, we wouldn’t be able to. We would lose the element that made us, us. I suppose this is why I choose to forgo makeup, not to cover up my under-eye bags, but to embrace them. They’re a testament to my hard work and perseverance. Rather than hiding them, I see them as a badge of honor worth celebrating.

I also often find myself fixated on the small imperfections. My lopsided smile. The dimples on the side of my cheeks when I laugh. Or sometimes the bigger ones, like that one question that I just can’t seem to figure out even when I tried working it out countless times. But, as I look down at the broken pieces of paper in my trash bin, I see something more honest and true. 

As I fidget in my seat, my Elmo slippers tapping on the wooden floors, I hear my grandma's voice echo in my mind, "You know 畅畅 (Chàng Chàng), sometimes it's the little imperfections that make something truly beautiful." 

It’s in these quiet moments, sitting at my desk with a sad worn-down eraser beside me that I remember what my grandma told me about the Japanese concept of wabi-sabi. I describe it as “flawed beauty”. Flawed as in the imperfections that make something unique, the irregularities that tell a story. Beauty as is in the acceptance of those flaws, the grace found in the present, not the past. My grandma used to say that wabi-sabi is about finding joy in the little things, such as the chipped teacup that holds cherished memories or the old swing set with its once bright colors now faded. At eighty-eight, her skin is wrinkled at the forehead, and her hair has turned white with age. Are these signs of aging flaws? To some, maybe. But to me, it shows the very essence of her beauty. It’s the chipped teacup she refuses to throw away because it holds the memories of countless cups of hot tea shared with my family and me on cold winter mornings. It’s the old swing set she refuses to take out because it holds the laughter of my sister and me on summer evenings in Beijing. Every morning at five a.m., she quietly rises, knowing full well her legs won’t carry her for much longer. Yet, she still shuffles into the kitchen, moving with a mix of determination, just to make us breakfast. There's a tenderness in her routine, a quiet sacrifice she makes daily, even as it takes more from her than she can afford to give. It's a love that aches, to put others’ needs above themselves. To someone else, she may look flawed, the items she keeps may look flawed, and the things she does may look flawed. But to me, it holds a beauty that is irreplaceable like no other. Just as my lopsided smile in the mirror reflects a lifetime of genuine emotions, the faded lines and worn pages of a cherished book are proof of love and attention. To someone else, these things might seem imperfect, but to me, they are perfect in their representation of what the “real” me looks like.

In the same way, the eraser marks on my paper are not blemishes and cracks to be ashamed of but rather signs of growth and change. Now, as my finger traces the imprint of my dark pencil markings, I see them as a mere reminder of a process that is beautifully imperfect. The eraser marks are now more of a reminder that the process of creating something new, much like life itself, is messy and unpredictable. Yet, it’s in this messiness that we find the deepest kind of beauty: a beauty that isn’t about being flawless, but about being real and lived. In the delicate smudges left behind, I see not just errors, but evidence of effort, of trying, of being human.

Life, like my paper, is a canvas marked by our attempts, our mistakes, and our triumphs. All of the eraser marks, the worn edges, the smudged graphite on paper—all these imperfections are not errors to be erased but tell the story of who we are, of the struggles we’ve overcome, and of the beauty that emerges from accepting ourselves. So, I think it’s okay if we all feel a little lost from time to time because being lost is, arguably, one of the best ways to be found. Yes, sometimes we might wish for an eraser to smooth out our rough patches, to remove the shadows of insecurity that reside within us and the lingering echoes of past mistakes made. Yet, these mental and physical imperfections are not simply flaws to be erased. It takes time, and it takes experiences, but when you stop caring so much about what everyone else thinks of you and start becoming the real you that you want to become, then you will realize, as I have realized, that with all our imperfections, we have become beautifully perfect. 

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Aleena is a night owl with a worn-down eraser, an overstuffed brain, and a deep appreciation for imperfect beauty. When she’s not drowning in research on gut microbiomes or debating whether tofu is the superior protein (it is), she’s probably sipping tea with her grandma, contemplating life’s smudges, and embracing the art of being beautifully flawed.