The Paradox of Perfection

When I say the word perfectionism, some people don’t understand the weight of it all. My brother, for example, couldn’t be more different from me in every way—demeanor, personality, thought process, literally everything. Sometimes growing up, I wondered how we were even from the same litter.

He is the stereotypical Type B—laid-back, go-with-the-flow, so unorganized that my mom used to say he’d lose his pecker (use your imagination) if it wasn’t attached to his body. He acts now and thinks later, rarely plans ahead, and only worries when there’s something truly worth worrying about. He doesn’t, and never will, understand perfectionism.

And then there’s me—the ultimate Type A. Always organized, always planning, always analyzing. An all-or-nothing mentality. And, of course, everything in my life needs to be perfect. I embody perfectionism.

Now, don’t get me wrong—perfectionism has shaped me into the person I am today. It’s given me discipline, drive, and an eye for detail. It’s made me strong-willed, organized, and a deep thinker. But there’s another side to the story, and that’s what I’m here to talk about.

Perfectionism isn’t always sunshine and rainbows.

When I tell people—especially Type B’s—that I struggle with perfectionism, they usually see it as a good thing. “It’s great to hold yourself to a high standard! It keeps you motivated and disciplined.” And while they have a point, they don’t see the downside. They don’t see how perfectionism can spiral into something destructive.

That’s where the paradox of perfectionism comes in.

Perfectionism is supposed to drive success, but ironically, it can do the exact opposite. It can lead to procrastination, burnout, dissatisfaction, and even failure—because when nothing ever feels good enough, it’s easy to get stuck in a cycle of overthinking, avoiding, or completely breaking down.

And trust me, I’ve lived this paradox.

My perfectionist mindset fueled a nearly seven-year eating disorder, destroyed friendships, and almost cost me my relationship (thank you to my Type B boyfriend for keeping me sane). Even in the little things, this paradox shows up daily. It turns tasks that should be simple into overwhelming battles with my own mind.

I’ve let perfectionism take over so many things—growing up, it was volleyball, writing, gymnastics. Today, it’s going out when my face is breaking out, yoga teaching, pottery… the list goes on. It’s like this constant voice in the back of my head saying, If it’s not perfect, it’s not worth doing.

I’ll never forget one night during my senior year of high school. I was taking a college-level literature class, and one of my final papers was due. I can still picture myself lying on the floor, sobbing—and I mean full-on meltdown, ugly crying, convinced I was completely incapable of writing.

I was stuck on the third paragraph. Just one paragraph. And because it wasn’t “good enough,” I kept deleting and rewriting it—probably 50 times. I was spiraling, convinced I couldn’t write, that I wouldn’t pass the class, that I was an absolute failure.

Finally, I dragged myself downstairs and told my mom how much I hated writing and how this sucked. Hours passed. The clock was ticking. And somehow—after all that stress—I sat down, busted out a full seven-page paper, submitted it five minutes before the deadline…

And guess what grade I got?

A freaking 100.

Normally, I’d be happy about that. But when I saw that grade, I wasn’t proud—I was furious. I know that sounds ridiculous, so let me walk you through my emotions.

I spent hours sobbing on the floor over that stupid paper. I truly believed I was turning in complete garbage. I was convinced I’d failed.

But no. Not only was it good—it was great. My teacher even left comments telling me about all the parts he loved.

I’m not telling this story to gloat. I’m telling it because it’s a perfect example of how easily my brain lied to me. It convinced me I wasn’t good enough. It made me believe my well-written, thoughtful, seven-page paper was trash. And the worst part? I believed it.

That’s the paradox of perfectionism—it makes you doubt yourself, even when you have every reason to trust your own abilities.

Another prime example? Starting this blog. The first time around, I didn’t do it because I was scared of failing. Then, this time, I almost didn’t go through with it again—because I convinced myself I’d look stupid, ranting about shit no one cares about.

And don’t even get me started on my website. I almost held off on publishing it because it wasn’t PERFECT yet.

Once again this is all the paradox of perfectionism. It doesn’t just hold you back—it talks you out of even trying.

All this to say—if you’re dealing with perfectionism, I get it. I understand the struggle, the frustration, the way it can completely take over your life. And trust me, you’re not alone.

I know how maddening it is when people say, “Just don’t think about it!” or “Relax!” (my favorite 🙃). But honestly? Sometimes, it actually helps to listen.

For the longest time, I labeled myself as a perfectionist—as if it was a permanent trait, something that defined me. But when I stopped saying, “No, you don’t understand, this is just who I am,” and instead thought, “What if I actually tried to let go a little?”—that’s when things started shifting.

I realized that, yes, perfectionism is my default when I’m not being mindful. But it doesn’t have to be who I am. I can change. I can grow. I can be whoever the hell I want to be.

I know I’ve already made my boyfriend’s head bigger than it needs to be, but I really do owe so much of my growth to him. He’s the one who keeps me grounded with simple phrases like “Just let it happen” and “So what?”—words that, at one point, would’ve sent me into a spiral but have slowly started to sink in.

They say opposites attract, and that you need balance in a relationship—and honestly? That’s never felt more true. Him being Type B has made me more patient, more adventurous, more free-flowing, and—best of all—more myself. The part of me that was buried under all the pressure. The inner child in me before I learned all the ways I could fail.

I’m not saying you need to rely on someone else to pull you out of your comfort zone, but for me, my boyfriend happened to be that push. Maybe for you, it’s not a person—it’s something else. Maybe it’s reconnecting with the hobbies you loved as a kid, without worrying about how you look or whether you’re any good at them. Or maybe it’s picking up something completely new, knowing you’ll suck at first but pushing through anyway. The trick is finding your edge and leaning into it.

I hope this post relates to someone out there and maybe even helps. Thanks for reading!

Until next time,

Ella xoxo