Confessions of a Failed Perfectionist

Confessions of a Failed Perfectionist

I was born with a planner in my hand. Not literally—though if my mother could’ve handed me a miniature color-coded calendar instead of a pacifier, she probably would have. From kindergarten on, I was that child: the one who lined up her crayons in rainbow order, who rewrote homework assignments three times because the “a” in the second line wasn’t perfectly round.

I thought it was cute back then. My teachers thought it was diligence. My classmates thought I was annoying. But I thought perfection was the secret key to life.

Fast-forward twenty years, and I can report, with both shame and relief: I have failed. I am a failed perfectionist.

Let me confess my crimes.

Crime #1: The To-Do List Graveyard

My love affair with to-do lists began in high school. I wrote them in fancy notebooks, on sticky notes, on the backs of receipts. The thrill of crossing things off was better than chocolate cake.

The problem was, my lists grew so ambitious they read like a syllabus for ten lifetimes:

Master Spanish.

Organize all family photos since 1987.

Achieve inner peace.

At first, I would panic when I didn’t complete them. Later, I developed a workaround: I simply rewrote the unfinished list in neater handwriting the next day. And the day after. And the day after. Until I realized that somewhere, in the bottom of my desk drawer, lay a fossilized stack of unchecked goals. A to-do list graveyard.

Crime #2: The Draft That Never Left the Drafts Folder

You know that feeling when you want to send an email but you obsess over every word? “Hello, hope you’re doing well!” felt too cheerful. “Hi, just checking in” sounded too cold. So, naturally, I spent two hours debating between exclamation points and ellipses.

The email never got sent.

And I wish I could tell you this happened once, but my drafts folder currently holds 1,276 unsent messages. Some are apologies, some are job applications, and at least one is a half-finished grocery list.

Crime #3: The Myth of the Perfect Morning Routine

I watched all those productivity gurus on YouTube. They promised me nirvana if I woke up at 5 a.m., journaled my intentions, meditated, drank lemon water, and did yoga while whispering affirmations to my inner child.

I tried it. Once.

I woke up late, spilled the lemon water, fell asleep during meditation, and pulled a muscle attempting yoga. By 8 a.m., I was not enlightened—I was limping, sticky, and late for work.

I now sleep until my alarm bullies me awake, and my morning ritual consists of muttering, “Please, coffee, fix me.”

The Truth Beneath the Jokes

It’s easy to laugh at these stories, but here’s the deeper confession: being a failed perfectionist is exhausting. Because for years, every mistake felt like a scar. Every undone task felt like proof that I was lazy or careless or somehow not enough.

Perfectionism wears a fancy disguise—it looks like ambition, like high standards, like discipline. But underneath, it’s often fear. Fear of being judged. Fear of disappointing people. Fear that without the gold star, you’re invisible.

And that fear kept me from living.

I didn’t apply for opportunities because my résumé “wasn’t perfect.” I didn’t share stories I wrote because they “weren’t polished enough.” I didn’t tell people how I felt because my words weren’t flawless.

Ironically, in trying so hard to get everything right, I missed out on actually doing things.

My Great Escape

So, how does one recover from perfectionism? Slowly. Messily. Imperfectly.

I started by posting a poem online that wasn’t my best work. I hit publish before I could chicken out. Nobody threw tomatoes at me. In fact, someone commented, “This made me smile.” That was enough.

I started leaving typos in my journal. I burned a batch of cookies and still ate them. I even wore mismatched socks on purpose once, just to see if the universe would collapse. Spoiler: it didn’t.

And every time I let go of control, life felt lighter. More fun. More mine.

Confession, or Maybe a Celebration

So yes, I am a failed perfectionist. My to-do lists are unfinished. My drafts folder is overflowing. My mornings are chaos.

But here’s what I’ve gained: I laugh more. I try more. I finish more. I live more.

And if perfection means never making a mistake, never embarrassing yourself, never falling short—then maybe failing at perfection is the best success I’ve ever had.

Because at the end of the day, life is not a perfectly written essay. It’s a messy, scribbled draft—full of cross-outs, grammar mistakes, and sentences that don’t always land.

And maybe that’s the point: we’re not here to get it right. We’re here to live it real.