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Confessions of a Recovering Perfectionist – Part 138

The Cave You Fear to Enter

Two weeks ago, I attended a men’s retreat in Eastern Idaho near Bear Lake. It was a last-minute decision, since I was gifted a ticket only days before the start of the event. When I read the description, it said that it would be physically demanding. Now that I’m 70, I wondered if I’d be able to participate. My daily exercise typically includes a 1.5 mile brisk walk around the new subdivision being built in my neighborhood on level asphalt. So the three hikes we went on at the retreat were demanding, for sure. We also did a cold plunge in a glacier-fed mountain lake. We hiked in rain, hail, and lightning crashing all around us. We played paintball capture the flag. We did holotropic breathing. And there were times when I wanted to sit out and not participate. 

Early on in the retreat, one of the facilitators shared this phrase:
The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek. 

That stuck with me. When we were given the chance to do the cold plunge, initially, I thought I’d just let the younger whippernappers do it, and I’d watch. But if there was a treasure after, I didn’t want to miss out. We had to go into the lake up to our necks and stay for at least three minutes. They taught us some breath work to help with the process. It was certainly very cold, but I did it. The treasure was: I can do hard things. 

One morning, we did a 7-mile hike up a mountain. It was over 8,000 feet in elevation, so I often had to stop and catch my breath. There were a few times when I was tempted to say, “You guys go on ahead without me. I’ll join you on the way back down.” But I made it to the top. The treasure was: An awe-inspiring view of the fall colors in Southeastern Idaho. We also did some small-group processing using the Ho’oponopono, an ancient Hawaiian spiritual practice of reconciliation, forgiveness, and mental cleansing that means “to make things right.” That was indeed a treasure. 

One evening we did a holotropic breathing process, a therapeutic breathing technique that uses controlled hyperventilation and evocative music to induce altered states of consciousness. The practice bypasses the conscious mind to access the subconscious, triggering emotional release and self-exploration. The treasure was: I invited Jesus to stay with me throughout the process. I spent time with around 20 younger versions of myself, providing support, compassion, and validation. I released three separate waves of sadness which evoked tears and laughter. 

There were other processes which also yielded their own treasures. It would have been easy to sit back and avoid the discomfort. But I would have missed the reward. 

The concept of “The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek,” is attributed to Carl Jung and Joseph Campbell. The sentiment heavily reflects the psychological concepts regarding the “shadow self” and individuation, the idea that personal growth requires confronting the dark or feared parts of the unconscious mind. In “the hero’s journey,” the cave represents the ultimate unknown or trial that a hero must face to gain wisdom instead of retreating into comfort.

I’ve been thinking about how much this applies to perfectionism. Perfectionism can create its own kind of cave. It says, “Don’t go there. You might fail. You might look foolish. You might discover that you aren’t as capable as you thought you were.” So we stay where we feel safe. We stick with what we know we can do well. We avoid situations where we might struggle, need help, fall behind, or simply not measure up.

But one of the things I learned at the retreat is that struggling isn’t the same thing as failing. At 70, I wasn’t the fastest hiker. I wasn’t the youngest person there. There were times when I had to stop and catch my breath while others continued up the trail. Perfectionism could have turned that into a story about inadequacy: “You don’t belong here. You’re too old. You can’t keep up.” Instead, I discovered that I didn’t have to be the best to participate. I simply had to keep taking the next step.

Perhaps this is one of the treasures hidden inside the cave of perfectionism: discovering that my worth isn’t determined by how well I perform. I can be tired and still be valuable. I can struggle and still belong. I can need to stop and catch my breath without having to apologize for it. I can enter an experience without knowing whether I will do it perfectly, or even whether I will be able to finish.

I also wonder if some of the caves we fear aren’t really about the activity itself. They are about what the activity might reveal about us. The mountain wasn’t just a mountain. The cold lake wasn’t just a cold lake. Sitting with younger versions of myself wasn’t simply an exercise. Each experience brought me face-to-face with parts of myself that I might normally avoid. The part that is afraid, the part that feels inadequate, the part that wants to quit, and the part that desperately wants to know that it is enough.

Perfectionism often promises to protect us from those feelings. If I can do everything right, maybe I won’t have to feel vulnerable. If I can always be strong, maybe I won’t have to acknowledge my weakness. If I can meet every expectation, maybe I won’t have to face the fear that I might not be enough. But the retreat reminded me that there can be treasure on the other side of those uncomfortable feelings. Sometimes the way forward isn’t becoming more perfect. It’s becoming more willing to be present with ourselves exactly as we are.

For me, the greatest treasure may have been realizing that I don’t have to conquer every cave. I simply need to be willing to enter the ones that are inviting me toward greater truth, healing, and connection. Sometimes the treasure isn’t becoming a better version of myself. Sometimes it’s discovering that the imperfect version of me is already worthy of compassion and love.

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Confessions of a Recovering Perfectionist – Part 137

Where does perfectionism come from? 

Not every perfectionist experienced obvious childhood trauma. And I think it is important to say that. There doesn’t have to be abuse, abandonment, or some dramatic event. Sometimes the wound is much quieter. 

A child may grow up feeling that love, approval, attention, or emotional safety is somehow connected to performance. Maybe Dad was disappointed when the child got a B instead of an A. Maybe Mom was anxious and constantly worried about what other people thought. Maybe mistakes were met with ridicule, anger, withdrawal, or lectures. Maybe the child was praised primarily for accomplishments: You’re so smart. You’re such a good boy. I’m proud of you because you did so well. Those things don’t necessarily sound traumatic. But a child can begin putting the pieces together.

Good performance = approval.
Mistakes = disappointment.
Failure = rejection.
Being good = being loved.
And eventually: I have to be good enough to be safe.

Research actually supports much of this. A meta-analysis of 46 studies involving 13,364 participants found that parental expectations were positively associated with several forms of perfectionism. Parental criticism was particularly associated with socially prescribed perfectionism—the feeling that other people expect you to be perfect. The researchers also found evidence that parents’ own perfectionistic tendencies can be reflected in their children.

In other words, children don’t just listen to what parents say. They watch. They absorb. They learn what it means to be acceptable.

Attachment theory gives us another way of understanding this. Children need more than food, shelter, and rules. They need a relationship in which they can be imperfect and still belong. They can make a mistake and still be safe. They don’t have to earn their place in the family. When that experience is missing, a child may develop strategies for maintaining connection. The child essentially says: “I will become what you need me to be.”

That can work remarkably well for a while. The child gets good grades, works hard, doesn’t cause trouble, becomes responsible. Maybe everybody admires them. But underneath all of that can be a scared little person who isn’t sure they are lovable apart from their performance.

Family systems can matter too. Research looking specifically at family-of-origin characteristics has found connections between dysfunctional perfectionism and certain family patterns.

One study of 264 university students found that dysfunctional perfectionism was predicted by extreme family enmeshment and parenting characterized by authoritarianism and psychological control.

Another study looked specifically at religious dysfunctional perfectionism and found that family rigidity, enmeshment, and disengagement explained an additional 18% of the variance in religious dysfunctional perfectionism after general perfectionism was taken into account. Family rigidity was an independent predictor. A rigid family can teach: “There is one right way.” An enmeshed family can teach: “Your choices affect how I feel about myself.” A disengaged family can teach: “Don’t expect anybody to be there for you.” And the perfectionistic child may respond: “Then I will figure out the right way to do everything myself.”

And then we bring religion into the picture. Can church traditions perpetuate perfectionism? Yes. But I don’t think the answer is that Christianity, or any particular church, is inherently responsible for perfectionism. Healthy faith can actually provide an antidote to perfectionism. The gospel teaches that I don’t have to earn God’s love. That Christ meets imperfect people where they are.

But religious environments are made up of human beings. And human beings can turn beautiful doctrines into performance systems. “A good Christian does this.” “A righteous person never struggles with that.” “If you were really faithful, you wouldn’t feel this way.” “If you prayed enough, you would have more faith.”

And suddenly the person who already learned as a child that love has to be earned hears the gospel through the lens of their childhood wound. “Christ will love me when I finally become good enough.”

A religious person can become so afraid of failing spiritually that their relationship with God becomes driven by anxiety rather than love. And a person can sincerely love God and still relate to Him through the nervous system of a frightened child.

Maybe the question isn’t “Why am I such a perfectionist?” But rather, “What did I learn I had to do in order to be loved?”

Sometimes we have to go back and offer compassion to the child who learned that love had to be earned. We have to learn, perhaps for the first time, what it feels like to be imperfect and still remain loved. To come before God without cleaning ourselves up first. What if I was never supposed to earn love?

Maybe the deepest healing from perfectionism isn’t becoming better at being perfect. Maybe it is finally becoming convinced that I don’t have to be perfect to belong.

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Confessions of a Recovering Perfectionist – Part 136

Trading Perfectionism for Peace

I recently came across an article from the American Psychological Association that caught my attention. It found that today’s young adults are more perfectionistic than any previous generation they’ve studied. Researchers analyzed data from more than 82,000 college students spanning 35 years, and one trend stood out. Young people today are increasingly afraid of making mistakes, failing, and being judged by others.

But I also think this applies to many adults, not just young adults. We live in a culture that tells us we’re only as valuable as our accomplishments. Whether it’s school, careers, parenting, social media, finances, or even our spirituality, we’re always being measured.

One thing I appreciated about this research is that it pushes back on the idea that social media is the whole problem. The researchers found that perfectionism has been increasing since long before Instagram or TikTok. They mention other cultural and financial pressures that have made people feel like there’s less room for mistakes and more pressure to prove their worth.

I think many members of the Church can relate to this.

Sometimes we accidentally bring the world’s definition of perfection into the gospel. We start believing that being a disciple means never struggling, never doubting, never making mistakes, and always having it together. We compare ourselves to others at church and wonder why we can’t measure up.

But Jesus never invited people to come to Him after they became perfect. He invited them to come as they were.

The scriptures don’t tell the story of perfect people. They tell the story of people who repeatedly turned back to Christ. Peter denied the Savior. Alma the younger rebelled. The sons of Mosiah made serious mistakes. Yet the Lord didn’t define them by their worst moments. He transformed them through His grace.

Perfectionism isn’t the same thing as excellence. Excellence says, “I’ll do my best and learn from my mistakes.” Perfectionism says, “If I make a mistake, something must be wrong with me.”

I’ve also noticed that perfectionism usually has less to do with high standards and more to do with fear. Fear of disappointing God, disappointing family, and disappointing ourselves.

“There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love.” (1 John 4:18, ESV)

As we begin to understand God’s love, we become less affected by shame and more motivated by gratitude. We still want to grow, repent, and become more like Christ, but we’re no longer trying to earn His love. We’re responding to love we’ve already been given. And when our eyes stay on the Savior, perfection becomes much less important than progress.

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Confessions of a Recovering Perfectionist – Part 135

Perfectionism and the People Who Draw Us Out

There’s an old saying: “Show me a person’s friends and I’ll show you the person.”

I’ve heard it said
That people come into our lives
For a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don’t know if I believe that’s true
But I know I’m who I am today because I knew you


Like a comet pulled from orbit
As it passes a sun
Like a stream that meets a boulder
Halfway through the wood
Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better?
But because I knew you
I have been changed for good

— Schwartz, Stephen (2003). “For Good”

I recently came across a quote from Yohan Delton that got me thinking about the influence others have on me:

I want to share a concept that I believe is worth sitting with: personality as a co-construction. Think of your best friend; now imagine that person disappears from your life. Of course, you would grieve the loss of them, but that’s not all you would lose; you would also lose a particular version of yourself that only they could bring out. You may have stood in front of a mirror trying to summon that version and found that it doesn’t work, and that’s because this person is, in a very real sense, a partial owner of your personality; they have access to dimensions of you that you yourself cannot unlock, and that is precisely why you love them. You didn’t just love the person; you loved who you became in their presence.

This illustrates something important: personality is not a fixed, internal property of isolated individuals; it is a co-construction, something that emerges between persons, in relationship, and so too is our shared reality. This means that reality and awareness are not self-contained events generated from within; they are co-constructed with the people around us, and different people will draw out different parts of us, some of which may genuinely surprise us or frighten us. This is why surrounding ourselves with a diversity of people may be one of the most powerful paths to self-knowledge; not because they tell us who we are, but because in their presence, we discover who we are.

This is also why the Church is so vital to our growth; unlike chosen friendships, our ward communities are composed of people we did not select, and it is precisely that unchosen diversity that draws out dimensions of ourselves we never knew were there. And if personality is truly co-constructed, then there is no greater context for becoming our fullest selves than in the presence of Christ, who sees and calls forth what no one else can.

— Yohan Delton (Personal correspondence.)

One of the things that struck me about this quote is how much it clashes with perfectionism.

Perfectionism tells us that life is all about fixing ourselves. We think if we can just work hard enough, improve enough, and get rid of enough weaknesses, we’ll finally become the person we’re supposed to be. It’s a very lonely way of looking at growth. It assumes that becoming better is mostly an individual project.

But when I look back on my own life, that’s not really how growth has happened.

Different people have brought out different parts of me. Some people bring out my sense of humor. Some bring out compassion. Some bring out confidence. And, if I’m being honest, some people bring out my insecurities, my impatience, and my perfectionism. Those relationships didn’t create those parts of me, but they revealed them.

That’s one reason I think perfectionism can be so frustrating. It wants us to be consistent, polished, and in control all the time. Real life doesn’t work that way. We are constantly discovering new things about ourselves through our interactions with other people. Sometimes we discover strengths we didn’t know we had. Sometimes we discover wounds that still need healing.

I also think this helps explain why church can be such a powerful place for growth. If I got to hand-pick everyone in my ward, I’d probably choose people who think like me, vote like me, and see the world like me. But that’s not how the Lord designed it. Instead, He puts us in a community with people we would never have chosen on our own. As frustrating as that can be at times, those relationships often stretch us in ways we wouldn’t experience otherwise.

The part of Delton’s quote that I keep coming back to is his observation about Christ. If other people can bring out parts of us that we can’t access on our own, imagine what happens when we spend time with the Savior.

Perfectionism says, “Become better, then come to Christ.”

Jesus says, “Come to Me, and together we’ll work on becoming better.”

Maybe the goal of life isn’t to create a perfect version of ourselves through sheer effort. Maybe the goal is to stay connected (to Christ and to other people) and allow those relationships to draw out the person God always knew we could become.

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Confessions of a Recovering Perfectionist – Part 134

Perfectionism vs. Scrupulosity

In Latter-day Saint culture, we talk a lot about becoming better. We covenant to improve, repent daily, serve more, love more, do more. That striving can be beautiful. It can also become heavy.

Over the years, both personally and in working with others, I’ve noticed two different struggles that often get confused, perfectionism and scrupulosity. They look similar on the surface. Both involve high standards. Both involve guilt. Both can make you feel like you’re never quite enough. But they are not the same problem, and they don’t heal in the same way. For Church members, understanding the difference can be helpful.

Initially, in comparing the two, you may expect me to show that one is good and the other it bad. Unfortunately, both have detrimental impacts, as you’ll soon discover.

Perfectionism is the relentless pressure to perform flawlessly. It says: If I make a mistake, I’ve failed. If I’m not progressing, I’m regressing. If people see my weaknesses, they won’t respect me. God must be disappointed in me.

Perfectionism is performance based. It focuses on outcomes, achievements, image, and comparison. In church life, it might sound like: I should be a better parent. I should read more scriptures. I should feel the Spirit more. Everyone else seems to have it together.

Perfectionism often produces anxiety, shame, and exhaustion. It turns discipleship into a treadmill you can’t step off. Ironically, perfectionists are often deeply sincere people who want to do what’s right. But instead of drawing closer to Christ, they feel perpetually at arms length from Him.

Scrupulosity is different. It’s not just about doing well. It’s about being morally or spiritually “safe.” It says: What if I sinned and didn’t realize it? What if I didn’t repent properly? What if my motives weren’t pure enough? What if God is upset with me right now?

Scrupulosity is fear-based. It’s driven by anxiety about sin, worthiness, and judgment from God. People with scrupulosity often confess the same things repeatedly, obsess over whether they took the sacrament worthily, fear they’ve committed some serious sin when they haven’t, or feel constant guilt even when doing their best.

While perfectionism says, “I must do everything right,” scrupulosity says, “I might be spiritually in danger even when nothing is wrong.” It can feel like living under a cloud that never lifts.

Both struggles distort how we experience the gospel. Perfectionism distorts grace. Scrupulosity distorts safety.

Perfectionism whispers: God loves the best version of you. Scrupulosity whispers: God might withdraw His love at any moment. Neither message comes from Christ.

Both perfectionism and scrupulosity are attempts to manage fear by controlling behavior. Perfectionism tries to control outcomes. Scrupulosity tries to control moral risk. Both hope that if we do everything right, we’ll finally feel peace. But peace doesn’t come from control. It comes from trust.

For perfectionism, healing involves learning that my worth doesn’t equal performance. For scrupulosity, healing involves learning that God is safe, and trusting that sincere repentance is sufficient. In both cases, the deeper cure is the same. A secure relationship with a merciful Savior. Jesus did not say, “Be perfect immediately, or I can’t help you.” He said: “Come unto Me. Walk with Me”

God isn’t looking for reasons to disqualify you. He’s looking for ways to rescue you. If you are sincerely trying, even imperfectly, you are already moving toward Him.

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Confessions of a Recovering Perfectionist – Part 133

April Conference 2026

One thing that stood out to me in this last General Conference wasn’t something anyone said directly, it was something that quietly kept getting dismantled. Perfectionism. Not the desire to grow. Not the desire to follow Christ. But that subtle, nagging belief that I should be further along than I am right now. What I heard instead, over and over, was a very different message. That Christ meets us exactly where we are.

Elder Rowe reminded us that Jesus Christ is not just a perfect example, but a “perfect and personal guide” who reaches out to us even when we feel inadequate. That phrase stuck with me. Personal guide. Not a distant evaluator. Not someone waiting at the finish line, shaking His head. A guide walks with you.

Elder Renlund’s message emphasized that Christ understands every factor that shapes who we are. He sees the full picture we often ignore when we judge ourselves. Perfectionism thrives on partial information. It zooms in on flaws and edits out context. Christ does the opposite. He sees completely and loves completely.

There was also a quiet correction to how we think about growth. Elder Soares’ talk described abiding in Christ as a constant, conscious choice, not a one-time act or a flawless streak. This isn’t about getting it right every time. It’s about staying connected.

And that’s where perfectionism starts to fall apart. Because perfectionism says, “You should be better by now.” But the gospel keeps saying, “Stay with Me.”

Even President Oaks’ invitation to be peacemakers hit me in a different way this time. Not just with others, but internally. Letting go of harshness, even in how I speak to myself. That’s uncomfortable, because for a lot of us, harshness feels productive. Like it’s what keeps us improving.

But what if the real growth doesn’t come from pressure, but from connection? What if becoming like Christ isn’t about eliminating weakness as fast as possible, but about walking with Him long enough that He changes us? Perfectionism wants transformation on a deadline. Christ offers transformation through relationship.

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Confessions of a Recovering Perfectionist – Part 132

Not Every Fall Is a Failure

Last Saturday, I was with a group of friends on a bike trip in Southern Utah. The canyons there are gorgeous. Near the end of the trail, I lost control of my bike and wrecked. I injured my leg. My doctor calls it a hamstring strain. After x-rays and ultrasound images, it was determined that the injury wasn’t a tear or a break, just a pulled muscle and strain on the associated tendons and ligaments.

This was my first time having a pulled hamstring. I was unaware of how painful it could be. My friends offered me Advil and suggested that, in my situation, I could take more than the recommended daily dose. It was difficult to just walk, let alone sit, stand, drive, or even lie down. I gained a new appreciation for others who go through this type of challenge.

When the time came for me to return to Idaho, driving seemed daunting, since pushing on the pedals increased the pain in my right leg. Again, friends came to my aid and drove me most of the way home. Another friend encouraged me to try using my left foot on the pedals. Although awkward, this worked well, and I navigated the last leg of the trip without incident.

Since returning, I’ve experienced care and help from my doctor, physical therapist, massage therapist, family members, and a priesthood blessing.

This whole ordeal has caused a lot of pain, inconvenience, worry, and stress. And while I know that others have it a lot worse, my point isn’t to compare my struggles with others.

Previous versions of myself would have reacted to this challenge with negative thoughts:

What did I do to deserve this?
Is this a punishment for not keeping the commandments with enough exactness?
How am I supposed to function optimally with this adversity?

Fortunately, I’m receiving greater understanding of the purpose of suffering/affliction.

Last Saturday’s bike wreck has stayed with me, not just because of the physical pain, but because of what it revealed about an old pattern in me. As I’ve reflected on the experience, I’ve noticed how quickly my mind wants to move toward perfectionistic interpretations. Even something as simple and human as losing control of a bike can start to feel like a personal failure, or worse, a spiritual one.

There’s a version of me that tries to make sense of pain by assigning blame.

What did I do wrong?
Why wasn’t I more careful?
Shouldn’t I be better than this by now?

That line of thinking can subtly shift into something even heavier:

Is this somehow a reflection of my standing with God?
Am I falling short in ways that are now catching up to me?

Perfectionism has a way of turning everyday adversity into a verdict on our worth or righteousness.

But this experience has given me a chance to see things differently. The reality is, I was on a beautiful trail, doing something good with good people, and an accident happened. Not everything painful is a consequence. Not every setback is a sign that something is wrong with me spiritually. Sometimes, it’s just part of living in a mortal body in a fallen world.

What has stood out to me even more than the injury itself is the outpouring of support that followed. Friends stepping in without hesitation. Creative solutions, like learning to drive with my left foot. Skilled professionals helping me heal. Family offering care. A priesthood blessing bringing peace. When I step back, I see that this experience wasn’t evidence of God’s disapproval; it was actually filled with evidence of His awareness of me. His help didn’t come by preventing the fall, but by surrounding me with grace afterward.

I’m learning that a more gospel-centered way to approach challenges isn’t to ask, “What did I do to deserve this?” but rather, “What is God showing me through this?” or “How is He supporting me in this?” The scriptures don’t teach that we earn a pain-free life through exactness. They teach that the Savior will be with us in our afflictions. That’s a very different lens.

Perfectionism says I should always be functioning at 100%, always in control, always improving without interruption. The gospel teaches something more merciful and truer: that growth often comes through limitation, that weakness is part of the plan, and that Christ meets us in those very places, not once we’ve overcome them.

This experience has reminded me that I don’t need to turn every hardship into a self-evaluation. I can let it be what it is: a hard thing, and then look for God’s hand within it. Instead of measuring myself against an unrealistic standard of constant optimal performance, I can receive help, adapt, and trust that the Lord is more interested in my reliance on Him than in my ability to avoid every misstep.

I’m still healing, physically and otherwise. But I’m grateful for what this has softened in me. Maybe the real “progress” isn’t in avoiding falls altogether, but in learning how to receive grace more readily when they happen.

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Confessions of a Recovering Perfectionist – Part 131

Battling with Perfectionism

I don’t often see other blogs written by perfectionists. But I did read an article in which the author described her battle with it and how she found healing through Christ. In the January 2026 Liahona, Maddy Poll writes: 

For most of my life, I was an outstanding student and dutiful daughter. I prided myself on my ability to balance work, school, and family.

I struggled with anxiety behind the scenes but didn’t want anyone to realize how close I was to falling apart. This perfectionism hit an unbearable height during my junior year of college.

I was drowning in my course load. My grades weren’t as good as they were in high school. I was taking on extra hours at work. My Church calling slipped through the cracks.

I felt like a complete and total failure.

On top of that, I was too afraid to ask for help. I couldn’t admit—to myself, to others, and to God—that my life had gotten so far out of my control.

Elder Vern P. Stanfill of the Seventy once warned: “Perfectionism requires an impossible, self-inflicted standard that compares us to others. This causes guilt and anxiety and can make us want to withdraw and isolate ourselves.” And I was learning that lesson the hard way.

I believed I should’ve been able to handle everything that was put in my path. When I didn’t, I felt all-consuming guilt that kept me from turning to my Heavenly Father when I needed Him most.

I couldn’t progress in any area of my life.

But hope wasn’t lost. As Elder Gerrit W. Gong of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles said, “Through spiritual transformation in Jesus Christ, we can escape debilitating perfectionism.”

She then explains how “embracing the second chance” was significant in her growth: 

Perfectionism completely undermines the purpose of mortality. If we’re sent to earth to learn to be like Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ (see Alma 12:24), how can we expect to already be like Them? If we were truly perfect, we wouldn’t need a Savior or His infinite Atonement.

The Savior doesn’t abandon us, even when we feel insufficient or imperfect. As President Russell M. Nelson shared, “The Savior suffered ‘pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind’ [Alma 7:11] so that He can comfort us, heal us, rescue us in times of need.”

I’ve learned that Christ wants us to turn to Him now, no matter how unprepared we feel. As we strengthen that relationship, He will help us overcome our imperfections.

I’d be lying if I said I don’t still grapple with perfectionism. But now I catch myself feeling “warm inside” whenever I give my best effort to the Lord, no matter how imperfect.

If you feel your efforts as a disciple, student, employee, friend, or family member aren’t enough, know that you aren’t a lost cause. You can heal by focusing on the Savior. Perfectionism may be a thief of progress, but the Savior is the key to peace.

Turn to Him, and you will see progress in your life.

You can read the entire article here. 

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Confessions of a Recovering Perfectionist – Part 130

Turning 70 Without Turning on Myself

I turned 70 this month. I won’t pretend that number didn’t give me pause. Birthdays like this tend to invite thoughts of years lived, mistakes made, blessings received, and questions still unanswered.

One thing has become clearer to me. If I want these later years to be peaceful and meaningful, I have to be careful not to turn my old perfectionism inward and let it rob me of joy. I don’t want to spend my time sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch, watching cars drive up and down the road, and yelling at the neighbor kids to stay off the lawn.  

For many of us in the Church, perfectionism doesn’t always look harsh or self-centered. Sometimes it comes out more subtly. It sounds like: I should be stronger than this by now. I should have more faith. I shouldn’t still be struggling with my body, my energy, or my emotions.

We know the scripture about becoming “perfect in Christ,” but somewhere along the way, some of us learned to interpret that as being hard on ourselves until we finally get it right.

Aging has a way of revealing how unkind that approach really is. Our bodies slow down. Energy comes and goes. Old regrets sometimes resurface. And if we’re not careful, we start treating these natural parts of aging as personal failures rather than normal parts of mortality.

One of the most freeing realizations I’ve had is this: aging is not a performance review. It’s not a test to see whether we exercised enough, served enough, or overcame everything we thought we should have overcome by now. Mortality doesn’t work that way. The gospel teaches us that growth is lifelong. And also, that weakness is not evidence that I’m a disappointment to God. “I give unto men weakness,” the Lord says, not as punishment, but as an invitation to humility and grace.

When we’re younger, much of life is about building careers, families, testimonies, and callings. Later life invites a different kind of discipleship. Less proving. More receiving. Receiving help. Receiving rest. Receiving the fact that slowing down doesn’t mean we’re sliding backward spiritually. I’ve noticed that people who seem to age with the most peace are not those who cling tightly to who they used to be, but those who allow themselves to become who they are now, without shame.

One of the quiet tasks of aging is learning to put down the internal checklist. The one that keeps track of 1) what I should still be able to do, 2) what others my age seem to be doing better, and 3) what I wish I had done differently.

For my birthday, my wife gave me a mug. On the outside, it says “Man of wisdom.” I hope that’s who I’m becoming. 

As I step into this new decade, my goal is not to age flawlessly or even impressively. My goal is to age faithfully. To trust that the Lord is far more interested in my heart than in my productivity.

If perfectionism once pushed me forward, I no longer want it driving the rest of the journey. There is a quieter strength available now, one rooted in humility, compassion, and trust in Christ.

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Confessions of a Recovering Perfectionist – Part 129

The Enabling Power of Repentance 

Last month, Elder Karl D. Hirst, General Authority Seventy, spoke at a BYU-Idaho Devotional. His talk was about repentance, which, for me, is linked to perfectionism. I’ve written about that connection in previous blog posts. 

For most of my life, I’ve had a pretty specific relationship with repentance. In my mind, it was mostly about clearing guilt, coming clean, and trying to avoid sinning in the future. But listening to this talk, I had a surprising realization. Repentance isn’t just about cleansing. It’s about changing into a better version of myself, even when I haven’t “messed up.” 

One of the most powerful ideas I heard is that imperfection and weakness are not proof of failure; they’re proof that we’re capable of growth. They’re part of the plan, not a distraction from it. Perfectionism often convinces me that flaws disqualify me. The gospel teaches that flaws prepare me. They make space for Christ’s grace.

Repentance literally means a change of heart and mind, a shift toward God, toward goodness, and toward better thinking and living. Nothing about that definition says repentance is only about sin. It’s about change. That means I can repent when I’m emotionally dysregulated, when I want more patience or optimism, and when I want deeper faith. I don’t need to wait for a big mistake to invite Christ into my life. His enabling power is accessed the same way as His cleansing power, through turning to Him. 

One of the most reassuring truths I heard was this: “Being weak does not mean we are Satan’s, it means we are capable of growth. Our weakness is God’s opportunity. Perfection will take care of itself if we will seek the Lord’s power in our progress and our participation.”

Perfectionism says, “You should have already arrived.” God says, “You are on your way.” Those are very different views.

The most hopeful insight I took away is this: Repenting and rejoicing are much closer than I realized. When I repent and turn toward Christ, I am also turning toward joy. In other words, repentance isn’t a depressing reminder of how far I fall short. It’s a pathway to the happiness and wholeness He wants to give me.

That’s a beautiful way to think about progress. Baby steps still count. Small improvements matter. Even patience in the process is part of the journey. Growth happens gradually, but consistently. He wants me to turn to Him, to use repentance as a tool for transformation, not just correction.

This is possible not because I’m capable enough or disciplined enough, but because the Savior’s grace is enough. That’s the kind of hope I want to carry forward. Not just the hope of being forgiven, but the hope of becoming something new.