Progress, not perfection

I imagined that being perfect would be amazing. I didn’t realize that pursuing this impossible goal would do me more harm than good.

Growing up, I had an abusive father. He taught me not to cry even when it hurt. He would even shove a blanket in my mouth to silence me. If that didn’t work, I could expect nothing less than hours alone in a dark bathroom. I was afraid of him and I believed that the only solution was to make no mistakes.

When my parents separated, I thought the reign of terror had ended. My father left but that didn’t stop him from punishing us. He abandoned his responsibilities to the family. He didn’t honor his obligations even when it was demanded in court. To add insult to injury, my father didn’t reach out for more than a decade, not even for birthdays or holidays. I would only see him during court proceedings where he would heavily object to fulfilling his duties as a father. My loving mother had to raise four children by herself and it took a toll on her. She fell into a deep depression that made me desperate to help her get better.

My childhood trauma triggered a desire to be perfect. I wanted to prove to my father that I was worthy of his love and I aspired to be the best to mend my mother’s broken spirit.In school, I pushed myself to achieve what I could so I would earn the right to live my life. I was always disappointed with myself. When I graduated high school with distinct honors, I grieved the thought that I wasn’t first. I received my bachelor’s degree as cum laude, and I focused on the fact that I wasn’t magna or summa cum laude.

As I was awarded medals, I dedicated each one to my mother. I wished that they were enough to take away the pain that she had to endure. I only had my mother to thank for my achievements, but I took a few seconds to briefly search the audience, hoping that my father could see what I had become without his support.

I forced myself to be flawless in my career. I would tick off every item on my long list of tasks and I would beat myself up for the ones I wasn’t able to do. If I had accomplished everything, I wouldn’t reward myself as it only seemed right. Instead, I would be relieved that I didn’t make a mistake that day. Unfortunately, that brief moment of respite wouldn’t last as I would soon feel anxious about the next day. I was insatiable. I worked until I was exhausted and as I wasn’t invincible, I would eventually collapse. When I couldn’t live up to being perfect, I would resign and move on to another position where I could only be excellent. I didn’t believe in second chances. I needed to do everything right the first time. Mistakes were unforgivable and failure was not an option.

A time came when I fell into the pit of depression. I lost hope. I failed too many times, and being successful was the only reason to live. In my darkest moments, my family and friends continued to love me even when I didn’t. They appreciated me and cared for me when all I could do was breathe and try to survive. I wanted to do more because I believed that it was the only way I could deem myself worthy. But surprisingly, there are people who value me even when I feel useless. It dawned on me that I didn’t like myself for who I was, I only saw myself for what I could do. My loved ones helped me understand that my being was more important than my doing.

I wish I could have realized this on my own, but that’s the perfectionist in me. I wanted to be smart enough, pretty enough, and good enough, but all I needed was enough of that. I kept on going toward goal after goal, chasing the idea of fulfillment when I didn’t even understand what would make me content. I dedicated my life to being perfect but I robbed myself of joy. I failed to see the beauty in courage, bravery, resilience, patience, and unconditional love.As a recovering perfectionist, I learned to be truly grateful no matter the circumstances. It’s easy to be angry and blame others for my trauma, but I am responsible for my healing. I thought that I had no choice but to be perfect. The uncomfortable truth is that it was never expected of me. I was the only one who imposed that unrealistic standard. In the face of those challenges, I chose to act the way I did. Ultimately, it has contributed to the best parts of me. I am not perfect, but I strive to be better every day. I now value progress more than perfection.

Kiara Gilles, 26, is a working professional in the field of advertising. She is a recovering perfectionist.