When Perfectionism Makes Us Forget Who We Are

This reflection is part of a Lenten series I’m writing called From Brokenness to Wholeness.

Last week I shared the story of a box of handmade pottery that arrived shattered in shipping — every piece cracked in some way.

It felt like a fitting metaphor for the ways life can fracture us.

This week I’ve been thinking about a specific kind of brokenness.
The quieter kind.

The kind that whispers:
I’m not good enough.

Or maybe even more insidious:
I should have done better.

The Night My Mind Went Blank

Two weeks ago at chorus rehearsal, it was finally my turn.

Each week our director taps a small group of singers to stand and sing for the rest of the chorus. Everyone does it eventually. It’s not a solo… but it’s not not a solo either. Just a few voices stepping forward while everyone else listens.

I had been waiting for my turn.

And dreading it.

I sing with this group all the time. I know these women. I’ve sung beside them for months. But this was different.

This time I wasn’t singing with them.

I was singing for them.

That night I was one of only two women carrying my voice part. And since my part is the melody, it sets the tone of the whole piece. If it wavers… everything wavers.

No pressure.

The good news was that I knew the song. Mostly. Well enough, I thought.

During our small group rehearsal earlier that evening, I had stumbled a little at first. But by the end it had come together. The notes were there. The rhythm was solid. The lyrics had settled into place.

I felt ready.

Or so I thought.

We stepped forward when it was our turn.

Beginning — strong.
First verse — no problem.

But heading into verse two, something strange happened inside my brain.

My mind did that thing where it suddenly grabs every version of the lyrics at once. Verse two collided with verse three, the refrain jumped ahead, and the words that had been perfectly clear minutes before turned into a tangled knot.

I hesitated.

Just enough that the others had to stop and restart.

We recovered. Pushed through the refrain.

All good.

And then… verse three.

Same mental hurdle. Same hesitation. Same stumble.

I smiled and kept singing.

But inside I was dying.

I knew this song.  I had sung it well in rehearsal only minutes earlier. But there, in front of everyone, something in me cracked under the pressure.

Now… let’s be clear.

This was not a competition. Nothing was on the line. No one was judging my performance or handing out scorecards.

But embarrassment has a funny way of ignoring logic.

All I could think was this:

I wanted — very much — to do it perfectly.

And I failed.

A Recovering Perfectionist — and a Relapse

When rehearsal ended, I gathered my music quietly and started packing up my bag… tail between my legs.

As I was getting ready to leave, our assistant director walked over. She had helped coach our small ensemble earlier that evening.

She smiled and said something kind — that I had done well… that she could see how much work I had put into learning the piece.

I thanked her. I appreciated the encouragement.

And yet… the only thing echoing in my head was the moment where I had stumbled.

“But I messed up.”

It’s funny how the mind works that way.

Someone offers affirmation… and we immediately filter it through our own internal scorecard.

I’ve been thinking about that moment a lot since then.

Because the truth is, the embarrassment I felt had very little to do with a couple of misplaced lyrics.

It had everything to do with my perfectionism.

That reaction wasn’t new for me.

For a long time, I carried the identity of a perfectionist.

I didn’t always call it that.

I called it having high standards.
Doing things well.
Caring about excellence.

Those things sound admirable.

And sometimes they are.

But somewhere along the way, excellence quietly crossed a line and became something else.

Perfectionism.

These days I sometimes refer to myself as a recovering perfectionist.

Recovering and relapsing… because the tendency still shows up from time to time.

Apparently even at chorus rehearsal.

When Excellence Slips into Perfectionism

Years ago, a therapist once handed me a simple sheet of paper.

Two columns.

On one side: Perfectionism.
On the other: Excellence.

I had always assumed those two things were basically the same.

They weren’t.

Excellence, the page suggested, is about doing our best with what we have. It leaves room for learning. For growth. For mistakes.

Perfection, on the other hand, is about control. It’s fueled by fear — the quiet belief that mistakes might expose something unacceptable about us.

When excellence slides into perfection, performance starts carrying more weight than it was ever meant to carry.

Our worth becomes tied to the outcome.

Which is why a small stumble in a song can feel strangely devastating.

Not because of the mistake itself.

But because of what we believe it says about us.

Two Sons, Same Assumption

Jesus once told a story that exposes this dynamic beautifully.

The story we usually call the Prodigal Son.

But the more I sit with it, the more I notice something interesting.

Both sons in that story think about their place in the family the same way.

Transactionally.

The younger son plans to return home and say,
“I’m no longer worthy to be called your son. Treat me like a hired servant.”

In other words: I’ll work my way back.

The older son has a similar mindset.

“I’ve always obeyed you,” he says. “I’ve done everything you asked.”

Translation: I’ve earned my place.

Different circumstances.

Same assumption.

Both sons believe their worth depends on what they have done.

But the father refuses to participate in that logic.

The father’s perspective is about identity, not performance.

Before the younger son can even finish his speech, the father restores him completely — robe, ring, celebration.

Not because he performed well.

Simply because he is his son.  That is his identity.  It’s a fact, and it cannot – nor will not – be changed.

The father never once speaks about what either son has done.

He speaks about who they are.

Refusing to Throw Yourself Away

Last week I wrote about that box of broken pottery.

Every piece cracked in transit.

At first glance, they looked ruined.  And I had been beating myself up about not packing them better, not doing more to ensure they arrived safely.

When something breaks, our instinct is often to discard it.

Not necessarily because it has no value… but because it no longer matches the picture we had in mind.

Perfectionism works the same way.

The moment something cracks — a mistake, a failure, an embarrassing stumble in front of a room full of singers — we quietly begin to question its worth.

Or worse…

Our own.

But maybe the deeper spiritual work isn’t fixing every crack.

Maybe it’s something simpler:

Refusing to throw ourselves away.

Belonging Rooted in Identity

Looking back now, I can see something I missed in that moment after rehearsal.

When our assistant director stopped to talk with me, she wasn’t evaluating my performance.

She was affirming my belonging.

She was reminding me — in a small, quiet way — that I still had a place in that chorus.

Even if the song hadn’t been perfect.

Which makes me wonder if the journey from brokenness to wholeness begins right there.

Not in flawless performance.

But in remembering who we are.

Beloved daughters.

Beloved sons.

People whose worth isn’t erased by a stumble in the middle of a song.

Or a crack in a piece of pottery.

Or a moment when our recovering perfectionism shows up again.

Maybe wholeness begins the moment we stop believing that imperfection disqualifies us.

And start trusting that belonging was never dependent on perfection in the first place.

So here’s the question I’ve been sitting with lately:

Where in my life have I allowed imperfection to feel like disqualification?

Next week:  Emptiness — when comparison begins to hollow out our sense of who we are.

Like this blog? 

Sign up to get new posts delivered directly to your inbox!