The Pain of Perfectionism: The Self-Judgment Is Real

I have a problem—or I should say, another problem. It’s perfectionism. You may be able to relate: the paralyzing fear of doing anything unless it’s “just right” (as if anything in life ever really is).

When I look back, I see how many things I thought had to be perfect. I thought my house should be spotless. It wasn’t. Dishes often filled the sink, and piles of clean and dirty laundry lived in every room. In school, I believed I had to get perfect grades. I didn’t. I would cry if I didn’t ace every test or top the curve.

Later, when I was working, I felt disappointed if I didn’t receive the highest evaluation scores. And when my husband was alive, I tried to be the perfect “trophy wife”—so he’d always be proud of me.

Why on earth would I do that to myself?

My parents were proud of us if we did our best. But somehow, I always felt like I could have done better. I set impossibly high standards. Now, I look back and laugh—cry a little, too—at how devastated I felt when I made a 99% on a test. Oh my stars! I truly believed that was failure. I was terrified of being anything less than perfect.

I thought I was lazy because my house didn’t look like a page out of Parade of Homes. My mother-in-law’s house did. But I forgot that she was a stay-at-home mom. I was working full-time and raising three kids. I didn’t factor in my own exhaustion. I’d take a nap instead of folding laundry, and then feel guilty for resting. I wouldn’t let my kids put their toys away because I was afraid they wouldn’t do it the right way. It felt like my responsibility—because if it wasn’t done perfectly, I wasn’t in control.

And my appearance? That was its own battlefield.

My husband loved me just as I was. He’d often ask, “Why are you putting on makeup? It’s Saturday. We’re not going anywhere.” But in my mind, that wasn’t what he wanted. I thought I needed to look modelesque 24/7. I dieted relentlessly. I spent too much money on cosmetics and gym memberships. I wanted to look like Cindy Crawford. But I was Bethanne. And I thought that wasn’t enough.

My self-worth was wrapped up in what I saw in the mirror—not in who I was.

So, where am I now?

I still have some perfectionistic tendencies, but I’m learning to let go. Since my husband’s death, I’ve realized that what really matters is the love and connection I have with my family and friends.

If my sister wants to drop by with 30 minutes’ notice, I don’t panic clean anymore. If my grands want to pull out every art supply in the house, I hand them the glitter and say, “Go for it.” But they know they’re in charge of putting it all away before they leave.

If I gain a few pounds? It’s not the end of the world. I’m healthy. Five pounds are just numbers—they’re not a measure of my worth.

I feel better about myself these days. I do what I want to do. And no, I don’t strive for perfectionism all the time—though yes, I may still put on a full face of makeup on a Saturday when I’m not going anywhere.

Because I’m not perfect. I’m just me. And finally, that feels like enough.

Blessings,

Bethanne