I have watched Amelia climb so many playgrounds this week that I have lost count. I notice how she looks at the equipment, takes a breath, and goes for it—no holding back, no waiting for the perfect strategy or way up. She simply goes, knowing she can call us if she gets stuck or needs help.
One playground was so high that we couldn't see her when she was at the top, amongst the ropes and wires holding it together. I will be honest; it left me a little faint. But she loved it, and each time she went up, she felt more confident, saying, "Look, Mummy, I am up here now!"
But then I noticed something during our reading lessons with her. One of her apps always says at the end of the skills test, if she gets 10/10, "Wow, a perfect score," and she loves it when that happens. However, when the score is not "perfect", she gets upset and doesn't feel as confident or great about herself anymore. This little voice, not saying 'perfect score', makes her question herself—the same little human who climbs playgrounds of skyscraper heights without hesitation.
What is it about perfection? Why does it haunt us all? More importantly, what can we do to stop the "perfection" propeller from spinning and aim for progress, not perfection?
I had a speaking event this week. Granted, it was virtual, but I had been prepping and thinking about it for a few months, and now, suddenly, it was THE day. I woke up early in the morning, went for a walk, and started to try and settle my head with a soap opera of scenarios playing out: What if they are all silent and don't participate? What if my message doesn't make sense? What if I mess it up? What if I don't get it perfect? There it was, the magical word: perfect. The mission to not mess up was so consuming that I got the jitters, my tummy was doing loop-da-loops, and I am the kind of "nerves-before-a-presentation" person who always thinks she needs the loo… FUN!
So, what is the meaning behind wanting to be perfect? Where does it come from? I often hear other parents, myself included, and remember in my childhood, the words "That's perfect! Well done!" being said a thousand times. If you got it 'just right', you were in the good books. If you did something 'perfect', the praise was sensational, and when you didn't, the silence of disappointment was still and felt thick.
I liked being called perfect. When people would visit my home and say how perfect, neat, and clean it was, I LOVED IT. I thrived on people saying my work was impeccable (perfect would be preferred, thanks!), and I wanted to be the perfect daughter, wife, friend, sister, and auntie.
But here's the thing: perfection is a double-edged sword because it can never be fully achieved. It sits toying with you on its blades, constantly keeping you balancing the act to find perfection.
I remember a moment when I let perfection kill a part of me. It was August 2013, the week before my mum died. I was meant to spend the day with her in the hospital, and as it was pretty far from my home, I should have headed out early—you would think a loving 'perfect' daughter would. But I was so wrapped up in making everything at the house perfect for when my mum would come to stay with us in care, that I avoided the reality that mum was not good and probably wouldn't be able to stay with us. I couldn't see it—I had to make it perfect.
I was so focused on getting it right that I remember telling Jorge he had to go immediately to buy paint for the room she would stay in so it would be fresh. When I got in the car and arrived at the hospital, it was already late afternoon. I went running to my mum's hospital room and saw it immediately on her face. My mum was upset—why was I so late? She was so looking forward to spending time with me, "just us", as she would often like to say. My heart broke; she was tired and couldn't really speak. She said she would see me the next day, as I was staying close to the hospital that night. I left, broken and ashamed. My mum never was able to chat with me. She took a turn and stopped communicating properly, drifting in and out of sleep after that night.
I blew it. I missed my chance to be with the one person I loved so much and disappointed her. My need to have everything perfect suddenly didn't feel so great. There was no thriving on it, and to this day, the memory of choosing perfect over my mum brings me to tears.
It has been over 10 years now since my mum passed away, and the pull of perfection still comes to grab me. I see it when I need to control things and be ahead of the game. I feel it creeping into my body as I get tense, my heart starts pounding, and I isolate myself, overthinking and creating scenarios before presentations, videos, and big decisions—the insistent focus to not get it wrong drumming in my head.
I tell myself to progress over perfection each day. Find the joy in learning, understanding, asking questions, and being present at each stage. Jump in and climb the ropes even if you don't have the perfect strategy. Say yes to speaking events and figure it out later. What is the worst that could happen? I guess it has already happened to me.
So, let go of perfection. Give her a comfy pillow and let her sleep—she is probably exhausted. And pick up progress, who is ready for action and keen to try, knowing that the only things to gain are lessons, memories, and hopefully many funny moments.
Love,
Vikki.
What does progress look like for you? If you would like support mapping out your progress toward becoming the person you aspire to be, contact me. Let's have a chat about who you want to be and the progress we can make to get you there.