Decades ago, when my oldest daughter was still a toddler, I decided that I didn’t have it in me to bake and decorate a birthday cake. I bought one at the supermarket. I did so with considerable personal pride at the time.
Buying a child’s birthday cake rather than giving in to the pressure of baking and decorating this special treat is a minor thing in the grand scheme of things, isn’t it? Did my daughter’s four-year-old party guests look at the cake and wonder what kind of a mother was slicing this run-of-the-mill confection? Doubt it!
That I still recall that cake moment as “momentous” says something about my halting progress in escaping the prison of perfectionism that ruled much of my life.
As a young working mom, no grass grew under my feet. I was a veritable whirling dervish — taking care of home, garden, kids, and spouse. I had a full-time job and volunteered at church and in the community. Some thought me a marvel. I received an accolade or two. Usually, however, I was concerned that I could have done something differently. I heard that eternal little voice whispering “better” in my ear. The perfectionist’s mischievous muse.
Fear rules out authenticity and happiness
“At its root, perfectionism isn’t really about a deep love of being meticulous. It’s about fear. Fear of making a mistake. Fear of disappointing others. Fear of failure. Fear of success.” ~~Michael Law
That resident fear of being wrong, making a mistake, is paralyzing. The unhealthy concern over what others think restricts authenticity of self. The pursuit of the perfect breeds unhappiness. Perfectionism is poison; it’s a prison. It ruined supposed high points in my life.
As a recovering perfectionist, I have a decades-long catalog of the ways I disappointed the universe. I rarely pull that book off the shelf anymore. I truly believe that I have grown beyond the devastating negative self-talk that perfectionism thrives on. For me, experience has demonstrated that worrying too much about what others think is a fools’ errand. They’re not thinking about me at all.
Nothing really matters (Queen song reference!)
Another life lesson: those projects we perfectionists relentlessly pursue – they rarely matter much in the grand scheme. Occasionally, it truly may be acceptable to “phone it in” and buy a little extra rest. Give yourself that permission! “Finished” is an accomplishment.
I have a confession to make.
I do not always submit work that meets my high expectations. I get crushed by competing priorities like many managers. Sometimes, I get bored and lose interest. I do not finish projects that I start, both at work and at home. But what I accomplish is my best, at that time. It still has value.
I know I can’t be perfect. My head already recognizes that. But deep in my psyche, that place my parents stuffed with thou shalts and thou shalt nots, a voice admonishes me that only perfection is acceptable.
Beating the expectations game
My parents had extremely high expectations of me, but it’s not their fault that I struggled so long against the paralyzing confinements of perfectionism. Certainly, they helped lay the foundation, but getting out of this prison requires my diligent attention and some therapy.
I still expect a lot of myself, but balance is my watchword.
First, I began to work on my self-concept, my self-worth. This may sound like a heavy lift, but one of the dramatic changes I have made was turning down the volume of pesky negative self-talk. I must remind myself “perfection is not the goal.” At home, much of my self-flagellation centers around my spotty housekeeping. I still work full-time, have a spouse who’s unwell, and an elderly mother. Self-care has far more value than the disappearance of a little dust.
Now, I benefit from the passage of time. Over the past few years, perspective has proven a powerful salve. When considering all the projects, meetings, presentations, family issues, disappointments, and so much more, I know deeply that nothing –nothing – was worth the pressure and strain I put myself through. I’m still standing and am professionally successful even though my reflections once illuminated only the glaring imperfections of my efforts.
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So what?
I’m just done with it. Trying to be perfect is not worth the pain, the shame, the disappointment.
So, when I curl up on the sofa with a good book and see the dust shimmering like an early fall frost under the television, I smile; maybe I smirk. Opening the book, its binding makes a crinkling sound that invites me to disappear into a perfect world of words and story. Hello, imperfect life, happy life.