The Good Person I Want To Be

Morning light spills across the kitchen table where I write, the teacup cooling beside my notes. For decades, I believed the Good Person I wanted to be was one who never stumbled, who offered perfect service without a shadow of self. In the convent, goodness was measured in silent hours of prayer and flawless care for others. I thought it meant being a steady hand, a calm voice, a vessel without cracks.

Then came the years with Thomas, my husband. I thought I could be that good person for him, especially when the cancer stole his strength. I’d sit by his bed, smoothing his sheets, speaking softly, believing my quiet presence was the goodness. But one night, as his breathing grew shallow, I realized I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t make the pain vanish. My hands shook as I held his, and I felt only the terrifying, human helplessness of it all. The Good Person I’d imagined would have known the right words, the perfect comfort. Instead, I was just a woman, afraid and broken.

What shattered my belief wasn’t failure—it was the need to be perfect. I’d spent a lifetime trying to be the saint others expected, forgetting that the sacred lives in the messy, trembling moments. I wonder sometimes if I ever truly saw Thomas in his frailty, or if I was too busy trying to be the "good" wife. The truth is, I wasn’t failing him by being imperfect. I was failing him by not being real.

Now, in this quiet house, I understand differently. The Good Person I want to be isn’t someone who never stumbles. It’s someone who, when they fall, chooses to stay on the ground and breathe. It’s holding a trembling hand without pretending it’s steady. It’s knowing that grace isn’t in the absence of fear, but in the courage to be seen in it. There’s a kind of grace in that—this ordinary, imperfect, deeply human way of being.

What if the most sacred thing we can offer is simply to show up, broken and whole, as we are?

— Gertrude Carroll, still wondering