How perfectionism is holding you back

Typos as a sign of healing

I am a recovering perfectionist. Like most of us, I was raised in the school system—both public and private—where grades prevailed as a form of mind control. Where you could get good grades and bad grades and that basically equated to you being good or bad.

The game came easy to me at some point, though there was talk of me being dyslexic, and it took me longer than others to decode symbols for reading.

I wonder if this is the case for many children who are observers. They sense the world so deeply: what others see, but also between the lines, the subtext and emotional undercurrents, the minutiae, even the subatomic realm. As mother to such a child, who is also very literal, I see the question of purpose and utility arise. The printed word is not the word.

The story is so pleasurable and captivating when heard. (Reading aloud to our children is one of the greatest gifts.) It’s just that the letters that spell apple are so not the apple itself. The sweet, crunchy, juicy apple—just twisted from the branch and wiped off in the belly of the shirt, the smell of dust and orchard, hum of wasps—captivates in an entirely tangible ecstatic way.

And yet, one has a longing to access to the jeweled forest of stories, the dragons, the fairies, the fields of mustard and sugarcane between cities, the epic dialogue with a trusted friend and wise teacher on the battlefield, the hero’s journey that reminds us to show up like the hero we are in the adventure of our own lives.

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The systems in place to place us under a spell are many and pervasive. They muddy our view: the way we see ourselves, the world, and ourselves in the world. They keep us distracted, so we stop acting the part of hero. So we funnel all our energy and the power of our attention into news stories and fashion shows.

Let’s remember that when we spell—which is to create words—we are casting a spell. To remember is not to take fright; it is simply to bring awareness to the threads and trails of words.

Yet, we can be aware, do our best, be human, transcend this idea that we can get it wrong, and create.

Perfectionism is a way we shut ourselves down before we even begin and derail ourselves from finishing what we start.

We aren’t here, as sparks of the Divine, to simply consume. We each have our own longings to create, express, and share. And what comes through us is entirely unique: music, painting, knitting, writing, construction, clothing, home, organizations, life.

My prayer for you (and me) is that you create what feels true in to your core, that you grow and allow your creations to grow with you, that you share.

In the simple act of sharing yourself and making meaningful connections is the seed of fulfillment.

We eat ourselves up from the inside when we stop the primal urge to create. The surge of creation is ocean powerful. The blocked up tumult of sea salt corrodes the system from within. This becomes circular thinking and dis-ease of energy, body, and mind.

Swadhisthana, sacral chakra, wants her sensual vision of the expanse to flow in abundance. Your life is your masterpiece. No one else can create your art for you or like you.

Typos, for me, reveal healing. A typo means I have chosen what matters most in my present moment dharma.

Here’s the scene:

Daisy, my 8 year old, comes into my office again, and I say, I’m almost done. Just 5 more minutes.

She cracks the door open again 5 minutes later, and I’m not exactly done yet.

Typos show forgoing the chance to reread or fix, and playing Monopoly for 2+ hours with my family instead (not my favorite game, but at least it’s the national parks version).

When I spy the typos, I think of that only: The expectant eyes peeking in through the crack in my door and the light in my heart, my 8 year-old daughter excited to play, waiting patiently.

As I enter solidly the teen years with my oldest, viscerally, I feel how truly fleeting this time is. Everything impermanent, our choices and intentions matter.

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So I spy the typos, and I feel love for all the versions of myself, for my daughter, for all that is and all that has brought me to this moment of abiding grace.

It’s not the sinking in my stomach I used to get—like I’ve made a grievous misstep, dropping a mistake into the sea of content.

(The perfectionist echo in me is slightly embarrassed to admit she cared so much about being wrong or right—which is basically what a typo represents. And being wrong is bad, right?

I’ve shed layers upon layers of conditioning that says I have to be someone else’s version of perfect to be loved and worthy of being, sharing, or taking up space.

As I let go the typos, I also uncover the freedom of not needing to have an opinion on every single thing. I’m no longer driven to play into the humiliation ritual of choosing sides.

I still have opinions, but mostly I’m able to see things from a place of curiosity and expansive possibility. That simply can’t be done when we hold onto our opinions and our need to be right for dear life, because they have come to represent our existential right to belong.

I get to forgive typos—my own and others. I cast spells from an ever clearer space. I fill my breath, my space, and my life with luminous clarity, love, and abundance.

And so it is.

Where is your inner perfectionist still in command?

Give yourself permission to be a work in progress (while you keep moving in the direction of growth).

You’ve got this,
Heather