In a quiet valley surrounded by towering peaks, there stood a workshop unlike any other —
the Workshop of Broken Tools.
Travelers came from all over the kingdom and left behind the things they believed were useless:
A hammer that struck too hard.
A compass that spun in circles.
A chisel that chipped in the wrong places.
A bucket that leaked.
A bell that rang off-key.
No one knew why the old craftsman who lived there collected them.
Some said he was lonely.
Others whispered he was mad.
But once a year, the craftsman invited the valley’s young apprentices to climb the long trail to his workshop and choose a single tool for their journey into adulthood.
Most dreaded the tradition.
Why choose something broken
when everyone else in the world carried tools that were polished, perfect, and strong?
Among the apprentices was a young man named Corin — impatient, ambitious, and convinced that greatness meant flawlessness.
He dreamed of being the best builder in the valley, admired for his precision and praised for his skill. He feared only one thing:
his own imperfections.
When the day came to climb the mountain, Corin intended to choose the least-broken tool he could find — something he could hide or at least repair quickly.
But when he reached the top and stepped inside the workshop, he froze.
The room glowed with lanternlight, casting long shadows across shelves of dented, scratched, crooked, and rusted tools.
Yet instead of chaos, the workshop felt… peaceful.
As if brokenness belonged here.
The craftsman sat at a wooden table, polishing a cracked magnifying lens.
“Choose what calls to you,” he said, without looking up.
Corin wandered between the shelves.
He reached for a sturdy hammer — but it split wood too aggressively, reminding him of his own temper.
He tested a beautiful compass — but the needle spun wildly, like his indecisiveness in moments of pressure.
He tried a chisel — but it chipped small pieces off everything it touched, like his tendency to critique others without thinking.
Each tool showed him a flaw he avoided seeing.
Frustrated, Corin muttered,
“Why give us broken things? How are we supposed to build anything with these?”
The craftsman raised his eyes for the first time.
“Because you will not build with the tool,” he said softly.
“You will build with the lesson it teaches you.”
As Corin turned to leave, something clattered behind him.
A crooked wooden ladder — its rungs uneven, its frame bent — fell from a shelf and landed at his feet.
He groaned. “Not even a tool. It can’t stand straight.”
The craftsman chuckled.
“Perhaps it chose you.”
Corin bristled. “I don’t want something so… flawed.”
The craftsman’s expression didn’t change.
“You don’t reject the ladder because it is flawed.
You reject it because its flaw looks too much like yours.”
Corin stiffened.
“What flaw?”
“Your fear of being anything other than perfect,” the craftsman said.
“It keeps you from rising.
Just like this ladder.”
Corin looked at the ladder again — bent, imperfect, and strangely familiar.
Reluctantly, he carried it home.
In the weeks that followed, Corin tried everything to fix the crooked ladder.
He sanded the sides.
Straightened the frame.
Tightened every rung.
But each time he thought it was perfect, it shifted again.
Frustration flared.
More than once, he nearly hurled it into the river.
Yet each time he climbed it, something curious happened:
When he rushed, the ladder wobbled.
When he breathed deeply, it steadied.
When he criticized it harshly, it creaked.
When he accepted it gently, it quieted.
It was as if the ladder wasn’t exposing its weakness —
it was reflecting his.
And slowly, without fanfare or epiphany,
Corin began to think differently.
His impatience softened.
His perfectionism loosened.
His self-doubt eased.
His need to rush dissolved.
The ladder never became perfect.
But Corin did not need it to be.
Because it had done what perfect tools never could:
It showed him who he was —
and who he could become.
A year passed.
Corin returned to the mountain, crooked ladder in hand.
The craftsman greeted him with a knowing smile.
“Tell me,” he asked,
“What have you built?”
Corin hesitated, then said:
“I built patience.
And humility.
And self-kindness.
And the ability to start again when I fail.”
The craftsman nodded.
“And the ladder?”
Corin touched the crooked wood affectionately.
“It’s still imperfect,” he said. “And so am I.”
“Good,” the craftsman replied.
“Perfect tools teach us how to build.
Broken tools teach us how to grow.”
Your flaws are not proof of your failure.
They are proof that you are unfinished —
and therefore still capable of becoming more.
Impatience teaches presence.
Self-doubt teaches courage.
Perfectionism teaches compassion.
Procrastination teaches discipline.
Jealousy teaches gratitude.
Stubbornness teaches flexibility.
Insecurity teaches self-love.
Your imperfections are not your burdens.
They are your teachers.
And growth begins the moment you stop trying to throw them away…
and start learning what they’re here to show you.
Body of Brilliance 