The Dark Side of Perfectionism

Perfectionism: Denying The Beauty of Life

I love going for drives. It used to just be a habit— if I got into a rut, either emotionally or creatively, I’d go for a drive. It always offered a temporary reprieve and some enlightened inspiration. But due to gas prices, it’s now become an expensive hobby I save for only the most beautiful of days.

A few weeks ago, it was one of those days. The sky was splashed in a gradient of blues, the most delicate hue dancing upon the horizon, gradually pigmenting the heavens in a bold azure. But then, something caught my eye and I couldn’t help but laugh.

Suspended in the gradient was the tiniest wisp of a cloud, a pint-sized puff if you will. See, God and I have been having a lot of conversations about perfectionism lately, so this perfectly-placed cloud felt like his knowing wink.

For the longest time, I glorified perfection as the not-so-weak weakness. I was proud of it, and rightfully so. School had taught me to strive for it— and if I studied enough, if I performed well enough, if I was good enough—I could attain it. 10/10, 100%, A+. Anything less would be brought to my attention with scribbled circles and red ink.

Perfectionism was a drug that worked well for me— for a very long time. It’s a highly desirable trait in school and in the working world. All too often, it’s synonymous with hardworking, diligent, punctual, reliable— and people like that, a lot. But I liked the praise even more. You’ll never find a more symbiotic relationship than perfectionism and praise.

My perfectionism had a pseudo-viable outlet until I left the working world to raise my own family.  The once praiseworthy trait was something I could no longer keep to myself, no matter how hard I tried. It spilled out onto everyone and everything— my husband, my kids, the housework, you name it. No one could measure up. Nothing was good enough. Ever.

It took several years before it became glaringly obvious that my perfectionism had never been something to be admired. I was now acutely aware of just how much it had warped my vision over the last two decades. When my husband cleaned up dinner, all I could see was the fork he forgot in the sink. When I styled my hair, all I could see was that one out-of-place strand. When I got my son dressed for church, all I could see was that tiny stain that didn’t come out in the wash. My eye was naturally drawn to these things, and what I once applauded as attention to detail had completely blinded me to the big picture beauty.

Now that I was finally aware of the toxicity of perfectionism, I resolved to do better. Of course, nothing changed overnight— but I became a work in progress. And painfully perceptive of how perfectionism had seeped into nearly every aspect of my life.

As I found joy and purpose in writing, it began to rear its ugly, unattainable head, ravenous for another outlet. I recognized it— its familiar whispers, its never-good-enough notions—and I felt myself falling back into the paralysis that is perfectionism.

God and I needed to have a conversation because my creative rut had turned into a giant hole I could no longer climb out of on my own. So, I decided to go for a drive, on what happened to be one of the most beautiful days we’ve had this spring. And that’s when I saw the tiny cloud weightlessly floating through a brilliant blue sky, followed by a divinely gentle intercession. 

“Is the sky any less lovely with this cloud in it? Will it ruin this beautiful day? Can the sun not shine through it? Will it keep you inside today?”

“Okay, okay— I get it,” I laughed. Not because the cloud or these questions were overtly funny, but because at that moment God had imparted some blatantly obvious wisdom: Perfectionism is ridiculous. That sky was one of the most beautiful I had ever seen.

As a writer, I love people with stories— and I can tell you firsthand that stories don’t come from perfection. Perfectionism means denying your humanity and all of the beauty that comes with it. There are no feelings found, no lessons learned, no battles won, no hope restored.  And what a shame that is—

Because that?

That’s the stuff a well-lived life is made of.

If you enjoyed this blog post, I think you’ll love The Writer Who Lost Her Words. It’s a story of losing heart, defining titles, and moving forward with confidence in your life.