On Perfectionism: The Freedom of Good Enough

I was the child who redid assignments that got A-minuses. The teenager who practiced a measure until it was flawless while the music itself lost meaning. The adult who missed deadlines because nothing was ever quite ready. Perfectionism wore the mask of excellence, but underneath was only fear.

The fear is specific: the terror of being seen as ordinary. Perfectionists believe that their worth is conditional—that they must be exceptional to be acceptable. This belief drives exhausting effort and guarantees perpetual dissatisfaction. Nothing is ever perfect enough, because perfection is the wrong goal.

The costs accumulate quietly. Projects never shipped. Relationships never risked. Creativity strangled by the certainty that the first attempt won't be good enough. The perfectionist's life narrows to the shrinking circle of things she can do flawlessly—while everything else goes unlived.

I began to recover when I noticed the people I admired most. They were not perfect. They made mistakes publicly, took risks that failed, produced work that was sometimes mediocre. But they produced, they shipped, they lived. Their imperfection was permission I hadn't realized I needed.

Good enough is not mediocrity—it's wisdom. It's the recognition that a finished project beats an endlessly refined one. That the dinner served beats the dinner imagined. That the relationship with real flaws beats the fantasy relationship with none. The perfect is the enemy of the good.

The practice is uncomfortable. Deliberately sending the email that could be slightly better. Posting the work that's not quite there. Saying yes to the invitation before every detail is managed. Each small imperfection is a small death to the perfectionist identity—and a small birth of something freer.

Perfectionism is often inherited. The parent who was never satisfied. The family system where love seemed conditional on achievement. Understanding the origin doesn't dissolve the pattern, but it helps. You were taught this; you can unlearn it. The fear is old; it doesn't have to be permanent.

What I've found on the other side is relief. The exhausting vigilance relaxes. The constant self-criticism softens. The energy previously spent on perfecting can be redirected to producing, connecting, living. Life is shorter than we think; perfectionism wastes too much of it.

Good enough is enough. The meal that's merely satisfying. The house that's merely tidy. The work that's merely competent. In a culture that celebrates excellence, accepting adequacy feels radical. But adequacy in many things makes room for excellence in some things—and for peace in everything.