The Danger of “Perfect”
I wanted relationships with real human connection. But that couldn’t happen when my friend didn’t know how human I was.
I used to pride myself in being a perfectionist. What could be better than perfect? Perfect was what everyone wanted. Perfect was the gold standard. “Perfectionism” was the “acceptable” weakness.
Or so I thought.
Reality hit me when a close friend joshed about how much “better” I was than the rest of our friend group. The joke jabbed me like a round-house kick, swinging fast and hitting me where I least expected it. I didn’t think I was better than anyone. Sure, I tried to be perfect, but suddenly the impact of people thinking I actually was perfect was far worse than being imperfect.
Trying to be perfect had put me on an island. It had distanced me from my closest friends. It had made me unrelatable.
Although I outwardly welcomed—even encouraged—imperfection in others, my actions spoke louder than my words. What did that really mean when I didn’t share my own imperfections? I thought being called perfect made me worthy, but here it was, disconnecting me from others.
If there was one thing I wanted more than anything, it was a deep intimacy with the people who surrounded me. It was a tight knit circle that could go to each other when they were facing challenges and be vulnerable with each other when they were broken. I wanted relationships with real human connection. But that couldn’t happen when my friend didn’t know how human I was.
And I was and am very human:
I struggled with making friends when I studied abroad in Spain because I couldn’t speak the language well enough.
I loved being a connector in our friend group but feared that was the only thing that made me a valuable asset.
I sometimes felt like I needed to achieve because I didn’t think I was enough just the way I was.
I still worried about looking stupid and often cared too much about what other people thought.
I used to think that hiding my flaws, insecurities and mistakes would make me more respected as a person. I now see that sharing these imperfections has made me more accepting of myself.
That’s the danger of being perfect; you miss out on the opportunity to be yourself and forgo the chance for others to really get to know you.
Because you can only be as accepting of others as you are of yourself. You can only get as close to others as you are to yourself.
Indeed, it was time to make a phone call to my friend. I suddenly simply had to share: Thank you for helping me accept that I am an imperfect human. It’ll be a continuous journey, but it’s about time you saw all the sides of me.
Recovering from perfectionism? Let’s chat!
