The Oxford Dictionary defines the word perfect astohave all the required or desirable elements, qualities, or characteristics; as good as it is possible to be. An art critic might define an artist’s perfected masterpiece as having all essential elements, unblemished, and precise. In moral philosophy, perfectionism is the persistence of will in obtaining the optimal quality of spiritual, mental, physical, and material being.
As good as it is possible to be. Unblemished. Optimal quality. Meeting this standard of perfection means first that some ideal standard has indeed been developed. Second, it’s an ideal that should be aspired to. And lastly, this item or person so called “perfect” — they’ve nailed that ideal.
Of all the times in my life I’ve aimed to create something perfect — be it a manuscript or a meal, a gift or a friendship — I can remember not a single success. Have I written well, prepared something delicious (my imperfect mushroom risotto is kind of a specialty), given a present that invoked tears of joy from the recipient, and cultivated relationships with some of the wisest, kindest people? Yes. But in each of these instances, I’ve failed to do so perfectly. And you can bet I remember each and every one of those failures I and my loved ones have had to endure along the way.
I’ve also failed to be the perfect version of each of the labels I’ve identified with throughout my life. “Athlete.” “Daughter.” “Best friend.” “Writer.” “Business owner.” “Woman.” I’ve been unable to finish a 5K and lied to my parents’ faces (teenage me was ON ONE). I’ve missed a bachelorette party as maid of honor and published work with embarrassing grammatical errors. I’ve learned hard social lessons trying to “make it” with a multilevel marketing company and let my feminist friends down with a poorly-timed joke. I can still viscerally remember each of these failures.
This enhanced memory for negatively-charged emotional experiences relates to a term coined by scientific researchers in 2001: negativity bias.
In each of the scenarios above, I’d formed a standard definition to suit the ideal that I’d been striving for, but only after I’d fallen short of it: “athletes” are those who run 5Ks without much training, “best friends” don’t miss bachelorette parties even if they’re broke, and “business owners” always make the right choices. So when it was clear to me that I was indeed not perfect in one of these capacities, I found myself rejecting those labels entirely.
How could I be what I said I was — “daughter, writer, woman” — if my behavior wasn’t aligned with my definition of perfection for each? I began berating myself and ruminating on those perceived failures — re-playing them over and over again in my mind without a moment of peace (and yes, I do identify as an anxious individual).
There’s thought to be an evolutionary benefit to negativity bias. Embarrassment, shame, and guilt — these feelings can preserve our group membership by helping us “atone for our sins”. When we mess up, we seek forgiveness from those whose opinions we care about.
Our earliest ancestors could not survive in isolation; battling the physical elements alone was a death sentence. This easy recall of any social faux pas committed helped them avoid making similar mistakes in the future, securing that group membership and ensuring self-preservation.
The same is true today in many ways. Research shows that the greatest indicator of long-term happiness and health is stable, fulfilling relationships. When we mess up, negativity bias is an important motivator for making better choices to preserve our social standing in the future.
But what happens when what we’ve failed at is our own notion of perfection, ultimately an unhelpful standard we were never meant to achieve?
It may come as no surprise that the aforementioned berating and ruminating were not helpful tricks for changing my behavior. Neither helped me become more healthy or happy. It hurt to feel so badly about myself. It hurt to think I wasn’t who I thought I was.
So, I started to say I was too busy to go to the gym. I shut my parents out of some of the most difficult experiences of my life. I made excuses not to connect with my best friend, I quit writing, and I stopped talking about the kind of work I was passionate about. I no longer stood up for my personal beliefs, thinking I wasn’t secure enough in them to argue on their behalf.
More recently than I’d like to admit, I was still struggling with these self-imposed definitions I so cared about and yet had fallen so far short of. I kept trying to compensate for the failures I’d committed by pushing harder in the direction of perfection. I gave lavish, expensive gifts to my parents at each holiday (many of which they never used). I wrote a full-length novel, but never had it proofread before publishing. I became obsessed with the opposite-sex relationships in existence all around me, convinced the women in them weren’t having their needs met (I know, cringe-worthy).
Finally, during the pandemic, I was turned on to one change above all others that helped me find the light: the notion of self-compassion. Also the title of a groundbreaking work by author Kristen Neff, self-compassion taught me to offer to myself the same grace and presence I’d have offered to any one of those people I‘d hurt with my own actions.
I began practicing small moments of mindfulness, a key piece of Neff’s definition of self-compassion. I also (and this is still a major work-in-progress) found ways to share with others my story, connecting to a sense of common humanity and the realization that so, so many of us are striving for an unrealistic ideal that leaves no room for our humanness.
Now, after 33 years on this spinning ball of dirt, I have reclaimed my love of all things movement and sports, I am a loyal daughter to 2 incredible parents, and I’m still striving to be the best friend I can, even from afar. I continue to write, design new business projects, and advocate for women and their health in ways that align with my values (and don’t negatively impact my loved ones and their relationships).
Instead of striving for some ideal I couldn’t name until I was certain I’d fallen short of it, I’ve uncovered the beauty of self-compassion. I’ve established a joyful relationship with every new definition I’ve given to myself and my journey. I no longer aim to be something I’m not supposed to be, instead seeking only to exist as fully myself as I can. And as a result of all I’ve learned I’ve also chosen to leave the word perfect out of my vocabulary entirely.
Where can you leave perfection behind in your own life? I’d love to hear from you! Reach out with thoughts at textahealthcoach@gmail.com.