This morning, I walked out of my house without making my bed or running the vacuum. These were tasks I used to insist on finishing before I could begin my day. I would even risk being late to an appointment if my carpets weren’t spotless. Returning to a tidy, organized home was crucial for my self-esteem; it made me believe I was a better person. In truth, it merely transformed me into an anxious, irritable individual.
In the past, I would clean my children’s rooms for them, dust meticulously, and never let more than four weeks pass without coloring my hair to hide those pesky roots. My showers were pristine, and I always had a candle lit to create a welcoming aroma for unexpected guests. I took pride in wrapping Christmas gifts with coordinated tags and ribbons, treating it with the same care I once reserved for swaddling my newborns.
However, over time, this relentless pursuit of perfection began to weigh heavily on me. For nearly 15 years, I believed that as a stay-at-home mom, my role was not just to maintain cleanliness and order but to embody perfection. I felt obligated to dress impeccably, remember every appointment, and ensure that my home wasn’t just clean but sparkling.
I would reassure myself that since I was home all day, there was no excuse for not preparing home-cooked meals. There was no way I would allow my kids to bring store-bought snacks to school—homemade was the only option. People admired my efforts, and I felt the pressure to maintain this facade, fearing they would discover the real me: a woman with imperfections, flaws, and the absence of a Master’s Degree. I had to be the ultimate mom and nurturer.
I was so tightly wound that I could have turned coal into diamonds. My shoulders ached from tension, and my jaw was perpetually clenched, resulting in jawline muscles that could rival a weightlifter. I was terrified of how others would perceive me in sweatpants with laundry piled on the floor. I could claim that I didn’t know why I cared, but that would be a lie. I craved validation as a woman who had it all together.
The reality, however, is that no one was focused on me or my home. They were preoccupied with their own lives. If they compared themselves to me, it only served to make them feel inferior. My perfectionism achieved nothing.
I could tell you that after my divorce, I woke up one day and realized I couldn’t keep up this charade and that striving for perfection as a single parent was exhausting, so I stopped. But that, too, would be misleading. I had been worn out from maintaining my perfectionist image for so long that it became my default.
What truly happened was that during my post-divorce adjustment, I finally started to feel worthy enough to present my authentic, messy self to the world. Suddenly, the dust on the baseboards seemed trivial, and focusing on myself became a priority. I no longer felt the urge to scrub my fridge or organize my pantry. I chose to embrace my flaws instead of hiding behind a mask of perfection. I felt liberated.
Moreover, a clean house and homemade treats don’t define good character. My divorce prompted a deep introspection. It wasn’t about having more time to be perfect; I simply lost the desire to be that person. I realized I didn’t need to stress over crumbs or unpolished toenails when it compromised my well-being. I wanted to engage in activities because I genuinely wanted to, not because I felt the need to impress others.
Letting go of my perfectionist self was daunting, but it lasted only a moment. I’ve given birth three times, and I’m a fantastic mother. Approaching my 43rd birthday, I’ve also learned to prioritize self-care. I’ve left behind a marriage that no longer served me. I have nothing to prove. People don’t admire you more for having a spotless home or perfect hair; they appreciate you for being genuine, raw, and open about your imperfections.
I’ve always understood this truth, but a perfectionist often believes they are the exception. They set impossibly high standards for themselves out of fear, and the higher the standard, the more fear they harbor.
As I sit here writing, I’m waiting for a friend to join me for lunch, sporting gray streaks in my hair. I could prepare homemade goodies for my kids’ class party tomorrow, but I’ll opt to buy something instead. By the time I return home, making my bed and vacuuming will be the least of my worries.
And I am gloriously happy.
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In summary, my journey through divorce led me to relinquish the need for perfection, allowing me to embrace authenticity and prioritize my well-being over societal expectations.