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The messy, honest work of learning to be enough.

Sometimes, I wonder why so many of us strive for perfection.

It’s not just about appearances—the emotional pressure we put on ourselves to excel at home, work, and relationships. Somewhere along the way, we absorbed the belief that if we stayed composed, kept everything in order, and never slipped up, we’d finally feel like we measured up.

And we’re not alone. A 2019 meta-analysis published in Psychological Bulletin found that perfectionism has increased significantly over the past few decades, particularly among young people and women. This is driven by growing societal expectations and the ongoing comparison driven by social media and a culture of achievement. We’re praised for keeping it all together, but we’re rarely asked how that pressure feels—or what it costs us.

My sisters often ask, “Why are you ironing your sheets and pillowcases?” And honestly, I don’t have a good answer. No one’s inspecting them. But some part of me equates crisp linens with control. Even when I’m tired, I smooth the creases like it will smooth the chaos in my mind.

Trying to get everything right wasn’t just a routine—it became tied to how I measured my worth. If the house was spotless, the to-do list was made, and I hadn’t burdened anyone, I could finally fall asleep feeling like I’d done enough to deserve my spot in the world. But the truth is, it never really felt like enough. I wasn’t looking for compliments—I just needed to feel okay with myself.

A home renovation cracked that illusion. We were removing ceramic tiles, and though the workers covered everything in plastic, dust still found its way into every corner. Walking through the mess made me uneasy. But the discomfort wasn’t really about the dust—it was about the fear that I wasn’t holding it all together anymore.

That kind of pressure seeps into everything: our relationships, conversations, and how we talk to ourselves. We grip tighter, thinking it’ll keep everything from falling apart. Even joy starts to feel like something we have to earn. And when we’re busy trying to control everything, we miss what’s right in front of us.

So I started letting go.

That didn’t mean giving up—it meant being present, even when things felt chaotic. Sometimes, that looked like saying, “I’m tired,” without apologizing. Other times, it meant leaving the dishes in the sink and running outside with my dog, Claudio. In the past, I would’ve stayed behind, cleaning. But that choice, however small, felt like freedom.

It’s taken time to believe that doing my best is enough. Growth doesn’t always look like progress. Sometimes, healing is quiet and awkward. But that doesn’t make it less real. For many of us, perfectionism is rooted in the belief that we’re only lovable when we perform. Maybe that started in childhood, when love felt conditional, followed us into adulthood, where productivity became a stand-in for self-worth.

But what if the mess is part of the process?

True transformation isn’t tidy. Whether you’re cleaning a living room or sorting through something painful inside, growth rarely looks linear. The most meaningful shifts in my life happened far from picture-perfect moments. They came when I was unsure, but I moved forward anyway.

Often, we don’t notice how far we’ve come until someone else points it out. When a friend says, “You seem calmer,” or “You don’t react like you used to,” that’s proof. That’s enough.

Now, when that voice in my head says everything should be smoother, I pause. I take a breath. Just one. And that’s usually enough to remind me I don’t have to fix everything right now. Dust isn’t dangerous. A home under construction is still a home. And I’m still me—even when things feel messy or undone.

Letting go means showing up as I am—unfiltered, imperfect—and trusting that it’s enough. What once felt like weakness now feels like strength.

Being kind to myself isn’t giving up—it’s choosing peace over punishment. It means meeting myself with grace, especially when I fall short. Strength isn’t about holding it all together. It’s how we treat ourselves when we can’t.

Letting go of perfection taught me to rest without guilt, say no without a backstory, and show up exactly as I am.

I’ve found something better than perfect: peace.

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