Perfection is Just Fear in a Better Outfit
I wrote this about a decade ago and found it again yesterday. Reading it now, I can see exactly what was happening before I had language for it.
I had a hard experience this week. I was at a training session with people from the holistic health care field. More than once, I felt like I didn’t belong there. I didn’t have the credentials to be legitimate. This was reinforced by being asked what credentials I had. I also experienced a few of those awkward moments when you’re in a conversation and they look at you politely, not really interested in what you have to say.
It wasn’t part of my imagination. It was me. I was triggered. I have a pattern of doubting that I’m ready and keep tweaking myself until I’m ready.
Perfectionism 101. I could teach the f*cking class.
I am not a label, a degree, certification, or seal of approval. I am more than the sum of my parts. I wear my life experience, every wrinkle, tear, and smile, as a true badge of honor.
When I die, don’t extol my academic and professional accomplishments. My tombstone won’t read that I graduated with a degree in biology from UCLA or was a member of this or that honor society.
No!
Shout it from the rooftops:
“You are the love child of your soul”
She was brave and leapt off ledges without knowing if she had wings.
She traveled the globe and wore the bounty of earth’s kisses in her hair.
She loved, let go, loved again and again and again.
She struggled with parenting and still did it twice and fought the demons from a childhood that scared the shit out of her inner mommy.
She embraced all that life had to offer, even the pain and grief, because these were the layers underneath where her soul was to be found. She dedicated her life to bringing gentle reason to topics that make most people squirm. She squirmed too but did it in silence and threw her reputation to the wind because she had to learn not to give a damn about what others think.
And the biggest of them all, staring fear in the eye and stepping forward despite the white knuckles of loss and labor at any surprising bend.
Is there such a thing as a degree in passionate living? A certification in freedom, sensual living, confidence, happiness, inspiration, wisdom, vulnerability, intimacy, love, or courage?
If so, every woman hits a point where she has earned those badges of honor precisely at the moment she no longer needs proof of her worth or purpose.
She, you, who’s reading this, have something more valuable. Proof in the life you’ve created that represents more than the sum of your parts, richer than the words on a piece of paper or all the glittery gold in the world.
You are the love child of your soul.
I wonder how many reading this can relate.
