Confession time — I am a lint picker. Wait, what?!! You too! Glad I’m in good company.
Let me take you on a journey into my childhood. I distinctly remember standing outside with my friends in grade 7 and one of them pulled a stray hair off my shirt and handed it to me. She pointed it out and verbally mentioned, with some sarcasm and judgement, that this is what I often did to them — I am a lint/hair picker. They noticed this habit and didn’t appreciate it. I was ashamed and embarrassed.
That moment of shame didn’t stop my need to cleanse people of their imperfections. I’d be talking with someone finding myself more concerned, or rather distracted by that stray hair or fluff of lint than by what they were saying. And the audacious part of it all: I believed they’d be thankful that I had saved them the embarrassment of having something out of place. I would get a sense of relief and pride in “helping” them out.
This level of perfectionism has plagued me for years and frankly I’m feeling slightly embarrassed revealing this truth right now. I felt that I must be perfect in everything otherwise what value did I add? And having everything ‘just so’ brought a weird sense of calm or rather, control.
Trying to be perfect led to years of dissatisfaction with myself. I’d even go so far as to say my inner critic abused me verbally, intellectually, physically, socially, and emotionally. I was never good enough and she was a harsh taskmaster.
My need for perfection also ramped up my fears of failure leading to deep firmly held insecurities.
In these places of striving to look and be perfect I lost connection to myself — the one who liked to play, to get messy, to be adventurous, to get creative.
How could I get messy and have fun with a new idea, project, or relationship if I’d have to do it perfectly? The truth was — I couldn’t and I chose not to; although I justified my reasoning and came up with clever and convincing stories of why I couldn’t.
Years of perfectionism also led to years of comparison and judgement. I wanted to be free to experiment and play like the free spirits around me, but the cost always felt too great. To admit my fears and insecurities would mean saying I wasn’t perfect and that truth felt crushing and the thought of opening Pandora's box seemed impossible. And so I stayed the course and held fast to the status quo.
It wasn’t until I started paying attention to my inner critic (which I named Trixie because I found personifying her made her more real and human) that the paradigm started to shift.
I started to see the connection between Trixie and the neglected child (Little Maria) that was being held protected deep within. Once I started giving Trixie a voice, stopped fighting back, and began validating what she had to say, things started to change.
By holding space and safety for both Trixie and Little Maria, I was able to build a more loving and gentle relationship with these two parts of myself. They are both me and both bring value and meaning to my life.
I realize that this may all sound hoodoo voodoo’ish, and yet, through these new realizations and understandings of the different aspects of who I am, I’ve been able to heal and amend years of pain and suffering.
I can now say that I am a recovering perfectionist — a healing work in progress.
I’m now okay with getting messy and not having all the answers. And I’m okay with the lint or hair that is beautifully perched on your shirt.
I want to be present to myself and those around me and engage with them; not focus on the lint or imperfection. Holding the tension between the perfect and imperfect gives me permission to make mistakes, try new things, be curious, and have fun.
I’ve come to understand that perfection is not an option — it never was and it never is. We are imperfect humans living in an imperfect world. Go out in nature and see for yourself: there is nothing perfect about nature but it sure is a wonder.
Living a life built on the limiting belief of being perfect led to years of bitterness, anger, disappointment, and resentment and that amount of internal suffering plus the abuse showered on me by Trixie trapped and crushed me until I was flat on my face wallowing in despair, helplessness, and hopelessness.
I now understand the value and beauty of the imperfect. It is all around us. Nature has been a guide and teacher, showing me the beauty and wonder of the gnarly tree, the lopsided crab shell, and the uneven flower pedals.
Perfectionism is an unattainable goal driven by a deep fear and insecurity of not being good enough. I tried harder, dug deeper, pushed further, and pulled up those big girl panties, all the while abandoning myself (Little Maria) for the possibility and hope that one day I’d be acceptable, matter, and be deeply loved.
I heard an analogy recently that sums it up: we beat ourselves with the stick never offering the carrot. The carrot is an illusion, whereas the stick is real.
Why do we do this to ourselves when we wouldn’t dream of treating another this way?
We’re driven by what we do as opposed to who we are. We are imperfect unique beings and yet we hide this truth from ourselves and others because it can’t possibly be true for me. The bar is too high when the perfectionist/inner critic makes the rules and offers no reward.
I don’t want to play this game anymore. It’s a lonely, sad and miserable life. I want to live free to be me — a recovering perfectionist following her heart, mind, body, and soul.
And I apologize to all those who stood before me sharing their lives and stories, and all I could see was that piece of lint on your shirt. I'm sorry for not being present and showing up fully for you. I'm here now, can we start again?
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