I’ve noticed something this week. A surprising wave of frustration—over my website.

It’s not that I expect it to be perfect. I’ve done everything I reasonably can. I know I’ll keep improving it over time. There’s not exactly a flood of people visiting right now. But something about it not working properly or not looking quite right touches a deeper nerve.

And I think I’ve found it: it frustrates me because it reveals that I’m not perfect. That someone might stumble across it—someone I respect, admire, or want to be understood by—and silently form a judgment. That they might see me in the middle of things and decide I’m not enough.

That’s the wound. Again. In a different form.

It shows up over and over in this process of creating something authentic. Every layer peels back the next. And here I am again, face to face with the part of me that equated being worthy with being polished, capable, complete.

But the truth I’m trying to live into is this: secure people don’t need me to be finished to love or respect me. They see the intention. They trust the direction. They assume, “He’s working on it. He’ll figure it out. It’s okay.”

And if someone doesn’t see it that way? Then maybe they were never safe for my vulnerability in the first place.

I think this is where the healing happens—not just in fixing the code or making things look nicer, but in learning to be okay being seen in the middle. In the glitchy, slightly messy, real part of the journey.

Because this isn’t just a website.

It’s me.

And I’m still being built.