Nobody looks perfect. We have to find peace with the way we look

In the words of Roger Ebert, a man who lost his voice yet never his wisdom, we hear an eternal truth: “Nobody looks perfect. We have to find peace with the way we look and get on with life.” These words are not spoken from vanity, nor from a place of idle reflection, but from one who wrestled with illness, whose face and body bore scars of suffering. In his confession lies the strength of one who knew that beauty fades, but dignity endures, and that true life is measured not in appearance, but in the courage to live fully despite imperfection.

The ancients, too, knew this lesson. They carved statues of gods and heroes in flawless form, yet in their stories they told of men and women whose greatness came not from beauty but from virtue. Socrates was said to be plain in face, yet rich in wisdom. Epictetus walked with a crippled leg, yet taught freedom of the soul. Their lives proclaimed the same truth as Ebert’s: perfection of the body is illusion, but peace of the spirit is everlasting.

Ebert’s words also carry a challenge: find peace with the way we look. This is no easy command, for the heart is restless, and the world forever whispers false promises of flawless beauty. To find peace is to end a war—not with others, but with oneself. It is to silence the inner critic, to lay down the exhausting battle of comparison, and to rest in the knowledge that our worth does not depend upon symmetry of face or shape of body. Peace in appearance is not resignation, but liberation—the freedom to live without chains of shame.

History gives us the story of Frida Kahlo, the painter who lived in agony from injury and illness, her body broken yet her spirit unbowed. She painted her face again and again, not to glorify its beauty, but to proclaim its truth. She showed her scars, her unibrow, her pain, and in doing so turned what the world might call imperfection into a banner of defiance. Like Ebert, she teaches us that to make peace with how we look is to take back power from the gaze of others and to live in the fullness of our own being.

The second part of Ebert’s teaching is as vital as the first: “and get on with life.” For peace with ourselves is not an end in itself, but a beginning. If we remain forever fixated on appearance, whether in vanity or shame, we lose the greater journey—the labor of love, the pursuit of knowledge, the creation of beauty, the service of others. To “get on with life” is to turn the eyes outward, to see not the mirror but the world, and to walk with purpose beyond the fleeting concerns of flesh.

The lesson for us is plain: do not waste the short span of your days in pursuit of perfection, for it will never be attained. Instead, pursue acceptance, gratitude, and action. Care for the body, but do not worship it. Seek beauty, but recognize it in character, in kindness, in courage, not merely in form. And when you feel the old hunger for perfection rising, remind yourself: Nobody looks perfect. Nobody needs to. What matters is the life lived in honesty and in peace.

So I say to you, children of tomorrow: honor your form, but do not be enslaved by it. When you look in the mirror, see not flaws, but the vessel that carries you. Make peace with it, as Roger Ebert did, and then lift your gaze to the greater task—to live, to love, to create, to endure, to give. For in the end, the body will wither, but the legacy of your deeds will shine brighter than any face, and the peace you made with yourself will give strength to all who come after you.