Hello Perfectionism, My Old Friend

on the burden of achievement, the determination towards wholeness

When the Enneagram took over social media a few years ago, I jumped on the trend eager to condense my personality into a number. I wanted to fit neatly into a single category, identify my strengths and weaknesses, commiserate and bond with fellow digits. At first, I thought I was a seven and inwardly rejoiced to be one of “the fun numbers.” But while I share some similarities with sevens, it became clear that I was not a true seven. I’m adventurous to a point but I am not the type who enjoys last minute, unplanned adventures. I’m not naturally optimistic or particularly energetic (especially post-covid). While I avoid pain, the real question is: WHO doesn’t? And though I’m easily distracted, I am also obsessively organized (at least in certain realms of my life).

So, I continued reading and testing and soon became convinced I was a two: The Helper, known for being warm and compassionate, generous and giving, people pleasers to a FAULT. I have an affinity for twos, for a younger version of myself who balked against this particular identity. But I’ve also wondered if these characteristics are my true inclination or if they were nurtured into me within the fundamentalist environment that heavily promoted “servanthood” and “cheerful obedience.”

Lately though, I’ve been increasingly aware of my lurking wing: The Perfectionist. Eight weeks of grad school has unearthed the part of me hellbent on chasing perfection. Daily, I attempt to squelch the inner critic that haunts my psyche, launching cruel accusations of failure in my direction. On the one hand, I am disciplined and responsible. I have not procrastinated except for the few times I’ve worked on less serious homework instead of more serious homework. My attitude toward school is all or nothing: either I devote every waking moment to this task at hand or I fall behind and FAIL. It’s extreme and untenable and I know this. But I don’t think I realized until these last few weeks the pull perfectionism has on my personhood.

For the last 10 years, I’ve flailed creatively, sunk deep in the mire of un-vocation. I have raged against my self for taking up space, for lagging instead of thriving. I am late to bloom, to discover what it is I want to bloom into. But eventually, I found it. In the slow spread of words from soul to paper. In the telling of stories and ideas and dreams. In my travels to Munich, Vienna, Salzburg, Prague, Athens, Rome. These past few years have been a reclamation of self: whether a 7, 2, 1, or otherwise. Once, I told my husband about Mary Oliver’s simple but poignant, “Things take the time they take,” and he’s repeated the phrase to me in those moments of creative bleakness when I’ve raged against my slow proclivities. I am a snail while everyone else is a hare. But alas: Things take the time they take.

Madeleine L’Engle wrote in Walking on Water, “The discipline of creation…is an effort towards wholeness.” And I suppose I lose sight of this effort when perfectionism looms large. Have I forgotten that I am here to learn? Not to achieve or excel or perfect. And still, it is easy to console a person against worry, to tell them to “just give it to Jesus.” It’s quite another to rid the body of a tendency that feels inherent, so deeply ontologically entrenched.

As a self-identifying perfectionist, it’s embarrassing to admit that I care this much, that I cannot relax during fall break, that I feel extreme guilt for any non-school related activity. A few weeks ago, I collapsed into despair, overwhelmed by my constraints. I couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t identify any goodness in my methods, practices, or writing. Doubt took hold like an invisible virus, launched me into an emotional spiral. There are no quick fixes, no antidotes beyond the ongoing work of self-love, self-trust, and self-grace. It’s a process with no clear arrival. I needed time to emerge from the shame and sorrow. I’m doing better and I am still tender. Perhaps I always will be.  

Ryan O’Neal, the composer behind the music project Sleeping at Last, wrote and composed songs for each enneagram number. I’d never listened to One because I felt removed from that identity. Until recently.

He sings, “This list goes on forever

Of all the ways I could be better, in my mind

As if I could earn God’s favor given time

Or at least congratulations

Now, I have learned my lesson

The price of this so called perfection is everything

I’ve spent my whole life searching desperately

To find out that grace requires nothing of me”

For my fellow perfectionists, my fellow self-loathers, I wish I had profound words to share with you. But I will echo dear Madeleine: we create towards wholeness. I will echo Ryan: grace requires nothing of us. We are worthy in our ongoing evolution. We are worthy in our perceived failure. We are enough (may we repeat until we believe). Yes and amen.