Perfectionism is a seedy balm that we spread over our hearts and minds like a bandaid, sealing in a yearning need for validation or something like belonging. It’s popular, lofty even, to refer to ourselves as recovering perfectionists. And it’s true, as with anything, that awareness is the first step. But is recovering perfectionism truly anti-perfectionism? Or is it a smug, self-aware nod to high standards and a curated life with a thick veneer? Is it just a hashtag?
Once we realize the dangers of perfectionism, we can begin to unravel decades of learned behavior. The unraveling is the recovery, quite literally it seems, since rehabilitating perfectionism would mean embracing the messiness of life, its unpredictability. Chaos is intoxicating, but not necessarily in a good way, for a perfectionist — perhaps in a way that feels more like losing control and screaming explicit holiday karaoke while removing clothing and lying on the floor at the bar in front of all your colleagues. Yeah. Your boss, too.
Perfectionism is a double-edged sword that we use to cut our best efforts down to the size of our own judgment. With one side, we achieve; we demonstrate competency. With the other, we destroy. Others may fall within striking distance when they fail to meet our impossible standards, but most of all we hurt ourselves.
Impossible standards. Do you know what has gotten me further than I ever “should” have gone — according to background, according to pedigree, whatever the hell that means — in life? Impossible standards. Do you know what has held me back most in life, what has caused me to take that destructive sword to my own spirit time and again? Impossible standards.
Writing a newsletter is like therapy for perfectionism. First, it’s difficult to stay entirely on schedule, given life’s demands, mental health, travel, and jobs. Secondly, there’s the issue of editing. Perfectionists are stellar editors. Hand us your words and we will whittle them into something clean and shining. But when you’re creating a weekly dispatch, sometimes right before it’s to be sent, there’s less time for editing than one might hope. A perfectionist editor could go on forever, happily carving out the muck with a tiny knife. Life does not offer forever for newsletters. This leads to errors: less than sparkling word choice, or repetition the eyes can’t see until later. I notice bumps and correct them on the site. But in your inbox, errors live on forever.
Errors live on forever.
Errors live on forever.
At least perfectionists think so.
But only if we let them. Isn’t that true? Errors living on forever is a perfectionist myth. Perfectionists like control, because it makes us feel like affection is growing closer with each impossible standard met. It makes us think we can convince the world to love us by being good at what we do. Validation is a drug to perfectionists and I am talking to myself.
The opposite of perfectionism is generosity. Wide and gracious acceptance. If we manage to find it, generosity feels more like a drug than perfection ever could.
Oh, generosity. Generosity will blow your mind.
Perfectionism must be chopped at the root, deep within the earth. Only when we give ourselves the validation we’re seeking do we begin to shine into our own impossible standards with new layers of grace. Spoiler alert. I’ve been working on this for years and can confirm that adage to be true: Old habits die like rocks. As in, never, or maybe over the course of millennia as we, too, turn to dust.
Right when you think you’ve made progress, one of those immortal rocks will come flying back into your orbit and knock you in the eyeball. Smack dab in the eyeball. You will fall over and the pupil will dilate and consider exploding as you wonder why, why did this happen when I thought I’d done the work. I tried to put the sword down. Life moves in spirals, though, and we must revisit the rocks from time to time. The rocks may never die, but we can change our relationship to the rocks. And remember, the rocks are not all bad. We can look at the rocks with generosity, a loving spirit.
Generosity, a drug! Yes, we see you, rocks. You are not all bad. You have helped us go far.
But now we will put you down and keep on walking.
What does it look like when we take the sword to old habits instead of our own precious energy and good intentions?
It looks like hard work, like trusting the world to love you for who you are instead of what you’ve done. Trust is hard. It can feel almost impossible to trust yourself to be worth something without achievement, and even harder to trust other people.
Other people are problematic.
Other people leak into your world and disappoint you.
Yes. Things like perfectionism often stem from formative experiences which are not our fault. It can be cathartic to call that out and discuss it for many hours with a person who is licensed to explore such topics. Sometimes we are victims of someone else’s rocks. They hurtled out of nowhere, over and over, and we felt like we were floating vulnerably in deep space, trying to pick up any shield we could. Or maybe a sword.
Despite that, we are the only ones who can put the sword down. The sword is powerful. The sword gets things done. And the sword kills.
I’m not sure where this warrior language is coming from, since I believe in finding another kind of power that’s soft and inviting. But warrior language does mean war. And indeed, this is a battle to protect our sweet, delicate spirits and secret ideas, our great big affection for the world. We carry those things and must invite them out and tell them they’re safe, letting them know that simply being here is enough; it’s valuable. Worth is intrinsic, never earned.
So it’s up to us. We can put down a welcome mat at our own door. We can like what we see in the mirror, weapons relinquished. We can choose affection for our pure intentions and for each and every little try. Miraculous life, all wrapped up in you. Would you unwrap a delicate gift by smashing it with a rock? No. Unwrap gingerly, gently; show your own care to yourself. Remember the deep and searing and generous love you feel for the world. It’s your superpower. Thank yourself for trying and for being here. That’s the war and it’s a holy fight.
Between you and me—
This year kicked my butt in a way I never anticipated. These questions and the values we hope to live as humans and artists took on a life of their own, ate themselves and multiplied, all while geography presented challenges with loneliness and isolation. I have new respect for the freelance hustle, and I’ve accepted that I am a quick mover by nature, breathing fire, and that the rest of the world does not necessarily keep that pace. Being in limbo for an extended period while we wait for our vision to align with reality has exhausted my family, mentally and emotionally, and this is all to say that I will take next week off and I hope you will, too. I will see Little Women; I will see Star Wars. I may watch one of those tv shows that everyone says I can’t miss. I will (try to) bask in not having everything figured out and create miraculous combinations of sugar and butter for loved ones. I’ll squeeze one more book into 2019.
I’ll see you in the bright and shining new year. I love you so much for reading and for being here. Thank you. If you have a perfectionist friend, or put another way, someone who tries hard to show their care and sometimes stumbles on their own two feet, it would mean a lot if you passed this along. Rest, rest, sparkle, and celebrate. Double, double, toil, and trouble. Take good care.