We live in the era of the highlight reel. By merely walking through a campus career fair or scrolling through LinkedIn during internship season, you will be instantly bombarded with images of seamless success. You’ll see hundreds of students in their sharpest attire wearing rehearsed smiles, all projecting the image of a perfect candidate.

In these situations, we constantly measure our behind-the-scenes struggles against everyone else’s public victories. It feels as though everyone else has figured out a secret formula for a frictionless existence. But if you look closer, you will see that this perfection is an illusion that is making us miserable.

Nature, our oldest teacher, never apologizes for being flawed. I was recently reflecting on a sunset — the way the light fractured through clouds, the uneven silhouette of trees against the horizon. It was breathtaking not because it was symmetrical, but because it was real. A tree that has weathered storms, twisted branches and rough bark — it stands stronger than the sapling that has never known the wind.

Yet, as students, we demand a symmetry from ourselves that nature itself does not possess. We are terrified of our own twisted branches.

This fear of imperfection is what psychologists call “duck syndrome.” Picture a duck gliding across a lake. On the surface, it looks calm and effortless. But underneath, its feet are paddling frantically just to stay afloat. At Binghamton University, we have become experts at being ducks. We hide our academic struggles and mental health battles because we believe a crack in our metaphorical armor is a sign of weakness.

But I would argue the opposite. A crack is simply where the light gets in.

Consider how having these perfect expectations of ourselves bleeds into our relationships. In the age of digital networking, many of us approach connections like a hiring manager reviewing a resume. We look for the “perfect” partner who checks every box and fits neatly into our five-year plan. But those who seek perfection in love are destined to be lonely. Humans are inherently flawed; we are moody, selfish and carry baggage. To truly love someone is not to ignore these cracks, but to accept them.

Real intimacy is built in the trenches of vulnerability. As the saying goes, the deepest love often grows where the most tears have been shed. If we lose this sense of intimacy in favor of curated perfection, our connections become mere transactions, leaving us surrounded by people we fundamentally do not know.

This obsession with perfection infects our consumption of culture and is exacerbated by technology. AI-generated art produces technically perfect images in seconds, yet they often feel hollow. This is because AI eliminates the secret intimacy between the creator and the observer, lacking the human mirror that allows us to see into an artist’s mind.

When we stand before a masterpiece, what moves us? Often, it is the erratic brushstrokes, the smudges, the hesitation of the artist’s hand. These “errors” give the piece its soul. Without this shared vulnerability, we lose our deeper connection to the piece, leaving us with a flawless image but no soul to speak to.

Our screens connect us to thousands, yet strip away the nuance of interaction. We edit texts to sound smarter and filter photos to make us look more attractive. We are becoming efficient, but losing our texture. We trade the warmth of a messy conversation for the cold precision of a digital reaction. Every convenience technology offers hides a cost — the atrophy of our ability to handle the “messiness” of real life. We are forgetting how to be awkward, how to apologize and how to forgive.

Every beautiful thing has a flaw; that is what makes it real. The relentless pursuit of a flawless life is a fast track to an empty one.

So, how do we push back against this tyranny of perfection? We can embrace the Japanese art of kintsugi. When a ceramic bowl breaks, traditional craftsmen do not throw it away. Instead, they repair the cracks with lacquer mixed with powdered gold. The break is not hidden, but highlighted. The object becomes more beautiful and valuable because it has been broken. Its history becomes part of its identity.

As we navigate our college years, we all accumulate cracks. A failed exam, a rejection, a heartbreak. We have two choices: paint over these with a facade of invincibility or fill them with gold. We can own our stories and realize that our resilience makes us more valuable, not less.

So, let your resume have a gap, let your voice shake when you speak and let your plans go awry. It is the cracks that give us depth. Through those cracks, we finally connect.

Omer Mungan is a sophomore majoring in philosophy, politics and law. 

Views expressed in the opinions pages represent the opinions of the columnists. The only piece that represents the view of the Pipe Dream Editorial Board is the staff editorial.