A Word to My Inner Perfectionist

It was a morning straight out of my nightmares: Fourth grade, and I arrived at school to see all my classmates carrying posterboards or shoeboxes. Adrenaline shot through me and landed in a pit of dread at the bottom of my stomach. That nutrition project: I had forgotten all about it. My hands suddenly felt extraordinarily empty. 

I turned in the project the next day, and when my teacher returned it, the bright red “B” glared at me. Even worse, she had scrawled the mark of shame across the top: “LATE.” She might as well have written “FAILURE.” The mortification seared itself into my memory. 

I berated myself for this lapse in responsibility. How could I have been so stupid? I prided myself on being an excellent student, and excellent students didn’t forget to do projects. 

There is more than one kind of perfectionist in this world. Some want everything done perfectly; others, like me, want it done right. For this reason, I loved report cards. In tangible form, there was a black-and-white evaluation of how I measured up. I knew exactly where I stood.

Later seasons of life didn’t afford me such clarity. How could I know, really know, that I was parenting right? And when differing opinions on schooling or discipline gave me different definitions of what was right, this caused me great consternation. Please, someone, tell me the right thing to do, and I’ll do it. 

Without an objective evaluation, I made myself my own mental report card. I will pack my children a healthy lunch every day. I will wash the towels on Mondays. I will water the houseplants on Sundays. I will schedule dentist appointments for everyone every six months. I am a success if I do these things; I am a failure if I don’t. 

Always, the shoulds caused my stomach to clench: You should buy organic. You should read this book to your children. You should watch this life-changing movie. You should keep a prayer journal. You should donate to this cause. If it was a convincing should, then that made it the right thing to do, and I am all about doing the right thing. I kept lists and bookmarked and resolved to be more right than I had ever been right before.

But it was never enough. I was never enough. 

I could never get through my list of books. Sometimes I forgot it was Monday and the towels didn’t get washed. Sometimes I realized at 5:00 that there wasn’t enough tilapia in the freezer. Sometimes I was late for an appointment. And when this would happen, I would write FAILURE in big red letters across the top of my paper. How could I be so stupid? 

Then one day, a Truth dropped into my consciousness: Amy, you are finite. 

It was one of those realizations I’d always known was true but hadn’t really digested. Oh, right. I actually have limits. So that means I can be responsible and still forget things sometimes. I can be an avid reader and still never have enough time to read all the books. I can be disciplined and still not check all the boxes. Because this is what it means to be a finite human.

I have not been helped by my culture’s mantra to Reach For the Stars and Be All You Can Be. Swirling in our air is the pressure to exceed expectations, do more, be more, and go beyond my limitations. Dependence is weakness. Vulnerability is shameful. Autonomy is everything. Don’t let anyone tell you what you can’t do.

Yet Jesus, who was perfect, chose to live a human life that included vulnerability and dependence on others. He was limited by time and space. He needed sleep. He disappointed people because he could not be in two places at once. 

Kelly Kapic writes, “If we believe that Jesus, who was free from all sin, was fully human, then this means that he considered creaturely restrictions to be part of his good creation and not evil at all. It means that we must not apologize for what the Son of God freely embraces.”

In times of anxiety or weakness, the Christian emphasis is on God. He is my strength. He is enough. He is infinite. Broaden your view of God, and inadequacy will subside. 

Yes, this is all true. But for me, an equal comfort has been also to remember my finiteness. Kapic writes, “We sometimes wrongly attribute all our problems to sin, when in fact they are often a matter of running up against the limits inherent in being finite creatures instead of being God.”

And in this Truth, there is freedom. I don’t need to get it all right. I can’t. I never will. In fact, when I insist on impossible standards for myself, I’m trying to pretend to be an infinite God. Taking time to rest, depending on others, and giving myself grace when I make mistakes are not signs of weakness, failure, or sin. On the contrary, accepting my finiteness is an expression of humility. I am not God. 

Of course, discipline, drive, and excellence are godly virtues. “I’m only human” can also be an excuse for laziness, irresponsibility, or even depravity. As an elementary teacher, I would give grave warnings to my students: Make sure you study extra hard for the test tomorrow. This one is really important. But then I would look over at Lea and Lotta – my panicking perfectionists – and whisper: You guys need to chill. Study a normal amount. You’ll be fine. I’m learning to discern when I need to tell myself the same. 

I am indebted to Kelly Kapic’s book for all it taught me on this subject. I highly recommend You’re Only Human: How Your Limits Reflect God’s Design and Why That’s Good News.