The Kind of Perfectionism That Exhausts You

It just happened to be my birthday. And Mother’s Day. And my child’s birthday.

All at once.

Because our birthdays are so close, we always celebrate big. There’s a party in the afternoon for my gorgeous little girl — and I honestly feel like the luckiest person in the world to have her. Then in the evening, we invite people over. Some of them come from far away, people we don’t see often, and it feels important to bring everyone together.

I love that part. I really do.

I love having people in my home. I love making them feel welcome, making them feel good.

But what people don’t see is what happens before.

Because I start planning all of this right after Christmas. Three full months. Watching Instagram, YouTube, Pinterest… saving ideas, imagining how everything should look, how everything should feel.

And in my head, it has to be perfect.

The house has to be spotless. Not just tidy — properly clean. Windows, carpets, every skirting board. Then the food… I want to make everything myself. Five or six sweet cakes, a birthday cake for my child, one for me, savoury food, something vegetarian, something filling, something for everyone. And the party itself — it has to be fun, not just “okay”. It needs a wow factor. Not just a bouncy castle, but a craft corner, a dress-up corner, handmade decorations, things I’ve 3D printed… and it just keeps going.

The list never really ends.

And the problem is — if something is missing, if something is not exactly how I imagined it…

In my head, I failed.

No one says it. No one ever has. These people are kind. They’re forgiving. They’re just happy to be there.

But in my head, it’s already decided.

It wasn’t good enough.

And usually, by the end of all of this, I am so tired and so frustrated that I start snapping at everyone around me. Sometimes I feel like I could shout at the fish in the tank just because they’re not swimming in a colour-coded way.

It sounds ridiculous. But in that moment, it doesn’t feel ridiculous at all.

And then comes the part that I never really understood.

The actual moment. The celebration.

And I can’t enjoy it.

At Christmas, it’s the same. I bake everyone’s favourite things. I prepare everything. And then, when we finally sit down together… I go quiet. I don’t really talk. I feel disconnected.

And inside, I’m thinking, “They don’t see it.” “They don’t understand how much effort this took.”

Even though no one asked for it to be this way.

This year, I had to go back to therapy. It started because I wanted help with my weight loss, but very quickly it became clear that it’s all connected.

Because my whole life has followed the same pattern. I try really hard. I do everything “right”. And then the moment something goes wrong, I feel like a failure.

So when my therapist asked me if I’m a perfectionist, I said no. Straight away.

Because in my mind, perfectionists are people who succeed. And I already felt like I don’t. I felt like I always end up failing, so how could I be one?

But then something clicked.

I realised I don’t not try.

I either don’t start at all because I’m already convinced I’ll fail…or I start and push myself so hard that I burn out completely…and then I give up.

Not because I can’t do it.

But because I already believe it’s not good enough.

I see it in everything. Even with my jewellery. I can look at what others are making, compare it to mine, and all I see is the difference. The gap. I feel scared to even ask for a fair price, because in my head it’s just… “my stuff”. Just something I made in a few hours. Nothing special. Not worth much.

And when I really sat with that feeling, I recognised the voice behind it.

It’s not mine.

It sounds like my parents. Especially my dad. “Others can do it better — why can’t you?” Being laughed at, being told I’m not good enough, hearing those things said out loud to other people. Being compared. Being humiliated.

Cleaning the house all weekend just to hear “nice job” for five minutes — and then still being told off for something else. Making something for the first time, something big, something I was proud of, and the only thing noticed was the one mistake.

Losing a stitch in a poncho — and that being the only thing that mattered.

When you grow up like that, something stays with you.

And I didn’t want to carry that forward.

When I became a mother, I made a promise to myself that I would do better. That I would do such a good job that no one could question it. That my child would reflect that.

And I tried. I really did.

But over time, I realised something important.

It’s okay to have help. It’s okay to step away sometimes. It’s okay to not do everything p0erfectly. It’s okay to have fun, even if things are messy.

And the truth is — I am not a perfect mother.

I don’t think anyone ever was.

But I am a good one.

I can see it in my child. In how happy she is. In how she feels safe enough to scream when she’s upset and then come back for a hug. She knows she is loved, no matter what.

And that matters more than anything being perfect.

My therapist asked me to imagine this part of myself. To give it a shape.

And what came to mind was my allotment.

It’s full of life. Tomatoes, cucumbers, little seedlings growing. Things I care about. Things I nurture.

But there are weeds too.

The parts of me I don’t like. The perfectionism. The self-doubt. That voice.

And when I looked closer, I realised those weeds are things like dandelion, nettle, chickweed.

And they’re not actually useless.

They’re part of the ecosystem.

If you understand them, they can even be helpful.

They just can’t be left to take over everything.

And I think that’s where I am now.

I’m not trying to remove this part of me anymore.

I’m trying to understand it. To manage it. To stop letting it run everything.

Because maybe it’s not about becoming perfect.

Maybe it’s about finally accepting that I don’t have to be.

And maybe…good enough is actually enough.

And if you feel like this too…

you’re not alone.