5 Strategies to Send Perfectionism Packing

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 I learned about boxes early on in life: There was my toy box, my little jewelry box that tinkled music while a little ballerina spun around, and my Donny and Marie lunchbox that my mom filled with Miracle Whip and bologna sandwiches whenever the cafeteria served gross food. There were grocery store aisles filled with colorful boxes of Fruit Loops, Apple Jacks and Lucky Charms, cereals that graced the shopping carts of other lucky 9 year-olds. 

Photo by Phil Aicken at unsplash.com

I felt a sense of otherness beginning as early as kindergarten. My ankles weren't "right." I was knock-kneed, and that meant I wore sturdy shit-brown shoes that laced up tightly to support my weak ankles.  Dr. Scharfe (48 years later and I still remember the foot doctor's name) was the bane of my existence.  Other little girls hopscotched in sandals and gym shoes. They jumped rope and chased boys wearing red fashion boots. And while I rocked a purple fur winter coat and rainbow knee socks, I was very aware that I didn't fit in with the other girls. I didn't chase boys. Instead, I incessantly read books. When I ran out of reading material at home, I read our big four-language Webster's Dictionary and set of World Book Encyclopedias.

I went to a small parochial school and was always in split classes. Because I was the only girl in my grade level, my female classmates were a year older. I knew I didn't "belong" when I was the only girl in our classroom not invited to Christine's birthday party. She walked by me as she handed out her invitations in class. I swallowed my tears and spent recess spinning under the drain spout of the eaves and dreaming about writing a Nancy Drew-like mystery. Melting ice rained down on my sweaty head,  my purple fur coat and my ugly brown shoes. 

You'll Burn Out by 35

The otherness continued as I grew up, and an acute sense of unworthiness developed. The shoes were long gone. I had staged a rebellion in fourth grade and refused to wear them. Now, when friends invited me to birthday parties, I had to find the best gift. I threw myself into everything I loved with 150%. As a teenager, my parents frequently told me that I was going to burn out by the time I was 35. I became a perfectionist with a capital "P." And as any self-aware perfectionist will tell you, the more you achieve, the more accolades you get, and the bigger the need for even more perfection. 

Archeology, writing and music were my passions. I dreamed of majoring in piano performance, but my practical and traditional father who loved me dearly was concerned:

"How will you support yourself? A woman needs to support herself in case her marriage doesn't work out."

I went away to college as an education major because "teaching is a good profession for a woman." My mother and grandmother were teachers. 

More and more, I became aware that I wasn't ticking the boxes on the Things Every Woman Dreams Of list. I didn't dream about being married. I didn't dream about having kids. Sure, I wanted to be loved, but family life wasn't my fantasy. I wanted to travel, have a partner who loved me, have a library and a piano in my home, and lots and lots of pets. I wanted space to create.  

Attempting to Check the Boxes

I married a nice guy. Everyone loved him. He checked all the boxes for everyone- my mom, my dad, my friends, and at the time, me. He told me I was the most self-actualized person he knew, and that he admired my strength.

I worked too hard at our life together. As a people-pleasing perfectionist, I gave 150%. 

Photo by Tracy Willis

Seven years later we sat on the floor in the hallway of our apartment sorting through boxes from our move the year before. My strengths that he once admired had become threats to his masculinity. I refused to mute my abilities and dreams to make him feel better about himself. I had asked him to leave. He was packing empty boxes and arguing with me about our CD collection. I pulled the small red leather-bound journal I had written for him during our engagement out of the cardboard box I was digging through. I had filled the pages with all of my hopes and dreams for us and had given it to him on our wedding day.  

 I tossed it to him.

      "Here. Pack this while you're at it."

He caught it and opened it. I watched him read the first few pages. He looked up at me, red-faced and said, "I forgot to read this." 

I had trouble remembering to breathe. It was like the time my little sister had sucker-punched me in the stomach.

Unpacking the Boxes

Like the death of a loved one, divorce brings life into focus. I grieved. I jumped into more friendships and relationships. I wrapped myself up in a cozy blanket of expectations, mine and theirs. I became a respected teacher leader. One administrator called me a "spark plug for innovation."  I gave 150%. My job became my identity, but the otherness was always there. I did my outside-the-box creative stuff in my classroom but never felt accepted by my colleagues.

I didn't burn out at age 35 as my parents had predicted, but I did gain and lose 50 pounds. I started smoking again, then quit, then started, and finally quit for the last time. I ran marathons. I reinvented myself over and over again. I developed stress-induced tachycardia and spent a whole summer in a daily puddle of tears. It took antidepressants and a couple of good therapists before I could admit how miserable I was. It was another five years before I could divulge to friends that I have anxiety issues. 

Moving Days

I could lie to you and tell you the meds and therapy made everything perfect. It would be so easy, but I aspire to mediocrity now- mediocrity with a capital "M." 

The planets didn't suddenly align, and my horoscope didn't promise miracles. Movement happened slowly.

Photo by Tracy Willis

I still have big goals, hopes and dreams, but I give myself grace because I'm worthy of it. Right now, I'm experimenting with what it feels like to just "be." Sounds weird, doesn't it? I've never been able to stop moving toward a goal or task. Summer vacation time used to be stressful for me because I didn't know what to do if I wasn't working or perfecting something. Now I sit on my couch and listen to music. I hike trails. I plop my butt on a meditation pillow and breathe. No expectations. No outcomes.

I developed strategies and stopped ticking off checklists. Over time, my perfectionism and people-pleasing didn't serve me anymore. Here's how I sent most of those tendencies packing:

Self Awareness

I know my old habits have returned when I begin worrying obsessively about what others think about my words and actions. I ask myself this question whenever perfectionism seeps back into my life: Ten years from now, will I really care about this? The answer is almost always, "No."

Pay Attention to Word Choice

When I begin using words like should and have to, I know it's time evaluate my motivations. I ask myself, "Why am I doing this? Who am I doing this for? Whose expectations are these?"

Movement is Magical

Part of being a perfectionist is how hard I am on my body and its appearance. I've learned that when I work out, I focus less on my appearance and more on how my body feels...and it feels powerful. Movement silences my inner critic.

Joy Makes Life Juicy

Life needs to be joyfully lived. A therapist once asked me, "When's the last time you felt joy?" I couldn't answer her question because my life was filled with unbelievably harsh, self-imposed expectations. There was no room for joy, and I was exhausted. Now I keep a Joy List. I write down everything that brings me joy. Then, I try to do those things as much as possible. My life is happier.

Boundaries Make Beautiful Friendships

With my long history of perfectionism, I struggled to have healthy relationships and friendships. Remember that 150% I kept giving? Well, I stopped expecting that of myself. I give what I can give. Sometimes, that is 150%, sometimes it's only 25%. I don't self-sacrifice anymore. When a friend hurts my feelings or ghosts me, I say something. A wise woman once pointed out to me that we teach people how to treat us if we allow repetitive behaviors that are hurtful or disrespectful. 

This strategy has been the hardest for me, because it involves conflict. Confrontation sucks, but if I truly care about my loved ones and myself, it's necessary for the health of our relationships. Sometimes the relationships end because I speak up. Other times, they grow and deepen.

Photo by Tracy Willis

As a recovering perfectionist, I've come a long way from the days when my self-worth depended on the number of boxes I could check off on my impossibly long list of unrealistic expectations. I'm healthier, happier and blissfully imperfect. 

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