Fable and me, uncoiffed and imperfect, on the coast of Maine.
Perfectionism is a pretender. It swoops in, whispering lies and promises. It pretends to keep you safe: from fear, criticism, vulnerability. “Impeccable is untouchable,” is one of its delusions.
Perfectionism will make you feel like an impostor, but perfectionism itself is the impostor: one that drains your energy and hijacks your time. The one-hour project takes all afternoon; the dream design dissolves quickly into overwhelm. Perfectionism can layer insurmountable stress onto any event or endeavor.
Perfectionism keeps you from taking action, because nothing feels even remotely easy. It keeps you stuck – in indecision or waiting for the “perfect” time, the “perfect” opportunity, idea or solution. I shudder to think of the dreams I gave up on early in my adult life because I couldn’t see a way to do them perfectly.
Anne Lamott calls perfectionism “the voice of the oppressor.” For women, our programming about perfection comes early — in incessant messages about feminine beauty. In our current age, social media has metastasized perfectionism into a particularly poisonous variety: effortless perfection. Now we need to be perfect without the unsightly detritus of actually trying hard.
Let’s be clear: perfectionism is an addiction. It’s an addiction that masquerades as high standards, a look-alike cousin to the excellence required for our greatest achievements. We tell ourselves it’s just part of our fierce work ethic, our healthy striving to be our best. This is what makes it so insidious to unwind from – if we give up perfectionism, we wonder what will become of us.
How do you know when you’re succumbing to perfectionism? Ask yourself: What is the emotion driving your actions? If the emotion is fear, it’s likely that perfectionism is lingering there, promising to protect you from judgment, criticism, shame. But of course, that’s a lie, because perfectionism always leads back to “I’m not good enough.”
As Elizabeth Gilbert says, perfectionism “is just fear dressed up in fancy shoes and a mink coat.”
When I think about my own struggle with perfectionism, it feels like the Frankenstein’s monster combination of my overachieving and people-pleasing, two habits I learned early on in life.
From day one of kindergarten, school was my happy place. I found structure and safety there, and I loved the validation I received for my good-student ways. I loved pleasing my teachers, and the grades I brought home made my parents smile. In a chaotic childhood I’d found something I could control, and I went all in, pouring my effort into whatever was asked of me.
I didn’t realize that an addiction, an unhealthy pattern, was taking shape in my psyche. The grades, the accolades were like a slot machine for my sense of worthiness, and I played on and on, pulling that lever on repeat right through graduate school. Like most people who struggle with impostor syndrome, I found that any satisfaction and feelings of worth were temporary, evaporating quickly after each achievement. I always needed the next hit. Somewhere along the way, I had acquired the self-destructive belief that my accomplishments were my worth, and my worth didn’t exist apart from my accomplishments.
Unwinding from this belief has taken me years, and I continue to find its threads in my thoughts and behavior most days. But I’m getting better at seeing the patterns. I’m onto myself. Brené Brown’s book, The Gifts of Imperfection, initially blew my mind. Then coaching helped me put her wisdom into daily practice.
Witnessing my own patterns of thinking –instead of being hostage to them – in real time, day by day, has been the key. There’s no epiphany that breaks the spell, no perfect moment of liberation (see what I did there?) It’s just a daily practice of self-awareness, and generous doses of self-love (the hardest part.)
That’s the ongoing cure: meeting myself out there in any moment with curiosity and compassion. It’s messy and deliberate, and anything but perfect, but nonetheless beautiful.
