Confessions from an "Imperfect Perfectionist"

I’m an imperfect perfectionist. I know it sounds strange, but it fits once you get to know me. I want everything to be flawless, yet I can never quite get there.  

I want perfection in everything: school, art, even the way I talk to people. But, how can a perfectionist like me manage a good life if all I do is procrastinate out of fear of failing? I compare myself to others until I think less of myself. I try to do good, but someone else always seems to do better.  

Even in conversations, I replay what I said in my head. Did I sound awkward? Did I say too much or not enough? It’s exhausting to second-guess words that are already gone. When I fail at one thing, I can’t stop wondering: why didn’t I get it? What are they doing better that I’m not? It feels like no matter how hard I chase perfection; I just end up proving how imperfect I really am. 

When I start on an assignment, I take one look and freeze. My mind goes blank, and I already feel like I don’t have it in me. I usually do my work in bed instead of at my desk because it’s less crowded; though I can’t be the only one who does that.  

When I look up ideas for my crafts on Instagram, I fall into comparing my work to theirs.  

Suddenly, what I’ve made feels unoriginal, like I can never be as creative as them. I’ll zoom in on someone’s painting or crochet piece, noticing every little detail, then glance back at mine and only see flaws. Even when I finish something and feel happy about it, doubt creeps in: did I really make this, or was I just analyzing someone else’s work? I wonder if there’s a cure for this. 

Sometimes I think perfectionism is about caring too much. I want my grades, my projects, even my conversations to prove that I tried. But the harder I push myself, the clearer it becomes that perfection isn’t real. It’s like chasing a shadow, because no matter how close I get, it slips away. Maybe the problem isn’t that I’m imperfect, but that I expect myself to be something nobody can be. Perfectionism makes life feel like a race I can never win. The finish line keeps moving, no matter how fast I run. And maybe the people I compare myself to aren’t as flawless as I think; they probably have their own doubts I’ll never see. 

So yes, I’m an imperfect perfectionist. I freeze up, I compare myself, I overthink and yes, I still wrestle with my obsession with being perfect. But I still care enough to keep trying. Maybe that’s what makes me human. And maybe being human is better than being perfect. If I can accept that, then I can finally give myself permission to breathe, to create and to live without needing every little thing to be flawless.