35, From Survive to Thrive

Last year, when I turned 34, I remember writing that, “Instead of being just fine, I want to thrive. I want 34 to be more of what I’ve been doing, more of what I want. More prioritizing of health! More physical movement! More ways to fill my soul! And maybe, just maybe, one more kid.”

Well, the kid part certainly happened. I’m realizing now just how contradictory my statement was. The last sentence completely nullifies my first three intentions. Having a kid, for me anyway, meant eating less healthy food, less exercise, and less soul-filling activities. Being pregnant meant spending the first three months bed-ridden, the next three months eating as many pastries I could get my hands on, and the last three months of it barely able to walk on a slight incline on the treadmill. Soul-filling activities were replaced with trying to fit in as much work as possible before my maternity leave. 34, in reality, was really about surviving.

Still in the infant phase with Gertie, I’m recognizing that 35 likely means more of the same survival skills 34 required. I barely leave the house and I don’t see that changing much this year. I try to cook healthy meals and exercise, but I’m not sure how much more time I can devote to the kitchen and gym, especially when I start working again. With two kids now, I have to cram even more into the same hours. Not an easy task.

As I go to bed on my last day of my 34th year, the laundry is piled up on the bed, wrinkled and unfolded. Toys and cushions are strewn across the living room floor from Bub building an obstacle course. (He succeeded. It’s definitely an obstacle to carry Gertie from one side of the room to the other now.) I find myself burnt out from responding to my three-year-old, who constantly wants my attention, and my two-month-old, who constantly needs my attention.

Maybe it’s okay that I don’t have the energy right now to come up with different intentions for this year. Maybe it’s okay that 35 is about letting things simply be, about letting myself live life without pressure for perfection or for big moments. Maybe 35 is embracing the imperfection, relishing the mess, and noticing the tiny beautiful things.

Pursuing Perfection

“What do you consider your greatest weakness?”

“I’m a perfectionist.”

Perfectionist

noun

a person who refuses to accept any standard short of perfection

I used to think being a perfectionist was a good thing. To be the perfect student, the perfect daughter, the perfect wife, the perfect teammate. I want to excel at everything, to be kind to everyone, to look beautiful at every angle. Striving to be the best, to be flawless - how can that be such a bad thing?

It’s a bad thing because perfection isn’t real.

It’s taken me years to realize that perfection is the root of so much pain and suffering in my life. Growing up, I was so far from being perfect that I perpetually felt immense pressure and disappointment. Self-deprecation and I were best friends, and she was always in my ear whispering that I wasn’t good enough and that I could have done better.

When I let a petty thing ruin my day or when I obsess over things outside of my control, I know that’s perfection knocking at my door. A couple weeks ago while riding my bike to the grocery store, I was heckled by a driver. Apparently, my waiting behind him at a stoplight bothered him. I sobbed to myself while walking through the ketchup aisle - sad that someone was mean to me and disappointed in myself that I let a complete stranger ruin an otherwise perfect day.

I feel perfectionism breathing down my neck when I receive constructive feedback - actually, when I receive any type of feedback, be it positive or constructive. When it’s constructive, I feel heartbroken and unworthy. When it’s positive, I feel like an imposter. If I get five pieces of feedback and one of them is constructive, I’ll only focus on the constructive and not the four positives. There goes perfection, trying to rob me of a joyous moment.

It also doesn’t help that being a perfectionist and a highly sensitive person (HSP) can work against each other. As an HSP, I’m hyper-aware of my environment, super sensitive to criticism, and try to avoid getting upset at all costs. For years, I thought being an HSP was a downfall, a disorder. My perfectionism was an attempt to compensate for my HSP shortcomings and a way to protect myself from future criticism and pain.

Somehow the older I get, the more perfect I want to be. I want to be the perfect spouse to my husband, the perfect mother to my children, and the perfect daughter to my parents. The sandwich generation pushes perfection from all sides. When more people need me, the more pressure I feel to be everything to everyone. My mind is either analyzing the past (“how could I have done that perfectly”) or planning for the future (“how will I make it perfect”). I’m rarely focusing on the present.

I have to make a conscious effort to ignore perfection when it doesn’t serve me, which is most of the time. I have to deliberately acknowledge it and choose not to pay attention to it. This might sound easy, but it is the hardest thing I’ll do each day. It doesn’t mean perfectionism will someday go away for me. It might be a part of me for the rest of my life, but I strive for a better relationship with it.

I’m learning that when I seek perfection, I only perfect disappointment. The mantra in my head right now: let go of perfection and seek to be present instead.

“In truth, the notions of perfect or imperfect are simply constructs of the mind and have no actual basis other than thought has created them.”

— Mel Schwartz, A Shift of Mind