life

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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 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 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 125

Perfectionism and Belonging

I recently spent several days with a friend and his relatives at a family get-together in another state. Knowing that they were members of a different religion and that I would likely be the only LDS person there gave me some anxiety. Would I feel “other” and like I didn’t fit in? Would I feel excluded? 

It turned out that my fears were unfounded. They welcomed me warmly and I quickly felt a sense of belonging. Since returning from the trip, I’ve been exploring why I felt that insecurity about how I would be received. I’ve made some connections with my perfectionism. 

As a child, I sometimes felt that I didn’t fit in with the other kids my age — at school, at church, and in the neighborhood. Those feelings planted some seeds that grew into perfectionism later on. Here are some ways that can happen. 

A sense of deficiency. When a child feels “different” or “not enough” compared to his peers, it can create a faulty core belief: “Something is wrong with me.” Perfectionism became a way to try to fix that sense of deficiency by proving my worth through achievements and performance.

Conditional belonging. Kids have a strong need for belonging. When I felt like I wasn’t accepted just as I was, I concluded, “If I can be perfect, then they’ll let me in.” That turns belonging into something conditional, based on what I do, not who I am.

Fear of rejection. Exclusion can make rejection feel painful. Perfectionism became a shield. “If I never make a mistake, I won’t give anyone a reason to reject me.”

Comparing myself to others. Being on the outside can make a child very aware of differences. That comparison carried into adulthood, increasing the pressure to be “better” in order to measure up. 

Those childhood experiences of exclusion left me feeling “not enough.” Perfectionism grows out of the hope that by being flawless, I can finally secure the acceptance and belonging that I felt was missing.

A healing piece of this journey was learning that belonging doesn’t come from perfection; it comes from understanding my divine nature as a son of God, and trusting that He is pleased with me, just as I am.