I have ugly handwriting. There, I said it. That’s a huge weight off my shoulder.
My dad tried to correct it early on. He’d sit me down at the kitchen table and force me (gently) to write through the alphabet a few times each night. It improved marginally. But I never fully developed that motor skill.
So imagine my distress, years later, when I’m asked to sign copies of my book, Created for More. People not only wanted my sloppy signature, but also a nice note in the front of the book that was personalized for them. My own anxiety meant that each signature also included trace amounts of sweat from my nervous palms.
I remember, during one of my first signing sessions at home, I asked my wife if she would just do it for me. Even when she tries to forge my signature it looks beautiful. She just can’t match the hideousness of my penmanship. So I figured she would make me look good if she signed the books.
But she reminded me of something. The signature had nothing to do with my penmanship. It had everything to do with my identity. People wanted my signature because they wanted a unique piece of me in their copy of my book.
Sure, Joel Osteen or Rick Warren’s signature might have more worth than mine in the real world. But when it comes to my book…my signature is worth far more than theirs.
My signature, with all its imperfections, is priceless because it’s me.
You have imperfections. But that’s what makes you you. That doesn’t mean you don’t need to strive to get better. It doesn’t mean you stay content with where you are. But you don’t have to be ashamed of your imperfections. They make up your fingerprint—which nobody else has but you.
