How I Became a Perfectionist (and How I Finally Let That Go)
When I was six, my father was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. A year later, my brother was diagnosed with leukemia. In a world that suddenly felt completely out of control, I clung to the one thing I could control: my grades.
I didn’t call myself a perfectionist—I just knew that anything less than 95% wasn’t good enough. By age seven, I was reading Little House on the Prairie, labeled “gifted,” and bumped up a grade just six weeks into Grade 2. I still remember cramming multiplication facts over the weekend and then standing awkwardly on the “big kids’” side of the playground come Monday, answering endless questions about why I was there.
That drive for academic excellence never really slowed down. The boys on the school bus called me “Junior” and “Brainiac.” I wore those nicknames like a badge of honor. Home life was a swirl of medical appointments and grown-up worries.
I retreated to my room at home with my books, reading and studying—because in those pages, I felt seen in a way I didn’t in real life. At school, I was smart. And being smart meant being someone.
I graduated second in my high school class—but didn’t get the title of Salutatorian. It was a popularity vote, and let’s just say I wasn’t exactly prom queen material. I thought I was just shy. Apparently, some people thought I was a snob. (Ha! If only they knew how much I overanalyzed every social interaction on the bus ride home.)
Someone once told me, “You’re smart. You should be a teacher.” Sounded reasonable. So I went to university, collected scholarships, landed on the Dean’s List, and continued building my identity on academic success.
By third year, I took a Writing course that required submitting a “rough draft.” I couldn’t wrap my head around that. A rough draft? I literally rewrote polished essays with intentional mistakes—because who does things roughly when you can do them right the first time?
At 21, I started my teaching career. While most 20-somethings were out dancing or dating, I was at home designing lesson plans and decorating bulletin boards. Summers were for laminating. My social life? Minimal. My romantic life? Neglected. But my lessons? Impeccable.
Then came my daughter at 27. And my son, 20 months later. Parenting was the first real crack in my perfectionism armor. Despite meticulous planning, these tiny humans had minds of their own. (Rude.) I had to let go—just a little. But when it came to myself and other adults, my standards stayed sky-high.
After six and a half years of marriage, my husband and I separated. Suddenly, it was just me and two kids. I was terrified. I’d spent the early years obsessing over clean floors and spotless counters while he took them out for beach walks and ice cream. You know, the fun stuff I thought I’d get to do once everything else was “perfect.”
Being the only adult in the house forced me to let more things go—but I was still clinging, white-knuckled, to my old standards. I threw Pinterest-worthy birthday parties that Martha Stewart would have applauded. But I was so busy curating every detail and snapping photos that I barely lived them. They weren’t celebrations; they were stressful photo ops.
My mantras were:
Go big or go home
A job worth doing is worth doing right
And for the love of God, do it right the first time
But over the years, something started to shift. I realized the perfect details didn’t matter if I was missing the actual moments. I didn’t know how to have fun anymore unless it had a purpose. Everything had to be measured, evaluated, justified.
And despite all the striving, I felt like a failure.
My relationships were strained. My job felt like a burden. I was exhausted. I had built my life to look impressive on the outside, but it felt hollow on the inside.
Then came a turning point. On the very first day of my first coaching certification program, we were told we’d be coaching each other on camera. On camera, with strangers, doing something I barely understood. Inside, I was panicking. If I’d known this was going to happen, I probably wouldn’t have signed up. But I was in deep—money spent, time invested, no backing out.
So I took a breath and did something radical:
I gave myself permission to be imperfect.
I let myself show up without hours of research. I flew by the seat of my pants and—get this—I didn’t die. In fact, I kind of loved it.
That was the beginning of the end of my perfectionism.
It’s been a journey of unraveling since then. I'm still a work in progress, but here's what I've learned (and what I want every coach who feels paralyzed by perfectionism to hear):
What to Do If Perfectionism Is Killing Your Coaching Business (and Your Joy):
1. Make Imperfection the New Normal
Show up messy, uncertain, and gloriously human. Let people see the real you. Celebrate progress, not polish. Dance, play, experiment. Don’t let perfectionism strangle your creative spirit.
2. Reframe Failure
One of my friends teaches her students to call their errors “Marvellous Mistakes”—because that’s where growth lives. Turn pressure into possibility. Let feedback be fuel, not a verdict.
3. Become an Action Figure
Analysis paralysis is the enemy of joy (and business). Take the risk. Color outside the lines. Leap before you feel ready. The clarity and confidence come after the action, not before.
4. Redefine Success
Perfection isn’t success. Perfection is a lie that keeps you stuck. True success is showing up courageously, being yourself, and choosing growth over approval. Vulnerability breeds resilience—and that’s the good stuff.
The irony? The farther I got from perfectionism, the more perfect life started to feel.
I’ve met amazing people just by hitting “send” on imperfect messages.
My house isn’t spotless, but my heart is full.
I still research—but I’ve learned that “done” really is better than “perfect.”
I love coaching. My standards are still high—but now they’re about impact, not image. I want to be the best coach I can be without sacrificing the life and people I love.
Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.
Now go be gloriously imperfect. The world’s waiting.
