There’s a fine line between doing your best and achieving perfection.
Realistically, your goals make the distinction clear, but the further you let your perception obscure your own importance and performances, the two benchmarks become dangerous targets despite your best intentions to succeed.
Playing sports such as Hockey, I quickly grew to hate losing; I hated losing more than I ever really wanted to win. To continue winning, I had to push myself. I needed coaches and teammates who helped me, but I knew well that my failure came down to me first and foremost, as the one who shoots the puck.
This self-defeating attitude wasn’t ideal, but it’s what helped give me the edge over the competition; it made me want to work harder because it was dangling success right in front of my face. I believed anything I was unable to do was simply because I hadn’t pushed myself hard enough for it.
By believing I was not working hard enough, this variation of thinking quickly bled into all the facets of my life. In academic settings, I revelled in the prospect of having the highest grade possible for myself. Working on subjects I didn’t even care about for the satisfaction of high performance.
The constant pressure of trying to be the best of the best at anything and everything I cared about consumed me. I was aware that I was hard on myself, but I believed that that’s what got me to where I am. I simply couldn’t comprehend how this mindset could be weighing me down and affecting people around me and the relationships I tried to maintain.
But my perception and artificial incentive could only take me so far. In high-school, I fully realized the negative side of my competitive drive and how destructive it can truly be.
Although I deeply enjoyed doing math, it tore me apart. I simply couldn’t rationalize how something that I found so interesting could be so difficult for me. I seemed to try repeatedly with only modest improvements at best, but not what I had hoped or expected.
It was here in high-school math that my emotionally destructive tendencies became apparent. Everything I thought I knew and worked on, suddenly, progress was no longer working for me. I became even harder on myself, working harder, and emotionally punishing myself even further when things didn’t work out. I didn’t know it yet, but this was the beginning of a long mental journey to accepting my imperfections and allowing myself to be human.
At the time, I did what I always do. I gave it 110 per cent and told myself anything less than that is a failure. I made slight improvements at best. I chalked this up to not trying hard enough. I spent nearly every lunch in grade 10 in an extra-help class that my teacher was offering, but it made little noticeable difference.
I couldn’t fathom that my effort wasn’t paying off in the way I’d expected. I always believed that success was a choice, and even if I couldn’t be perfect, I could still try to be great.
My natural mindset progression was thinking that I’m stupid. ‘How could I possibly do so poorly at something that I cared that much about? I must be stupid’. I’d no time for people trying to make excuses for me; I failed myself.
I needed a lot of time and to do a lot of soul-searching to accept that the steps I took may not have achieved the results I was hoping for, but I could still appreciate them and how far I’ve come.
Having people who I deeply respected—Teaching Assistants and peers I found incredibly intelligent—reassure me that I’m not what I believe I am and that I shouldn’t be defaulting to a defeatist mindset based on poor performance.
My self-esteem being dependent on performances made me incredibly emotional and reactionary—I was difficult on myself, but it was harder on those trying to support me.
My quest for perfection had effectively turned me into an emotional time bomb waiting to explode. The older I got, the more pressure I put on myself. As everyone was progressing in life—getting jobs, collecting degrees and awards, making impressive advancements in their lives—my perception of my success became even more harmful.
I could accept that there are certain goals that I could never truly reach, but I believed that everything was empirical. I thought that anything I worked for would work out and make me as great as I wanted to be.
In a way, I learned to let go, to accept that the imperfections of mine are what make me human. To let go of my perfectionism meant learning self-compassion, and it made me much happier.
I try my absolute best, and when things got tough, I never gave up. My mentality is to never roll over and give up; I toss and turn all night thinking about what I want to be great at. But I’ve come to appreciate what I have and what I’ve accomplished. I’ve done everything I can, and I remain thankful that I tried.
Maybe I’ll never strike a baseball with the skill of Ted Williams, I can’t really play chess, and I’m probably the last person anyone would turn to for anything math-related, but I tried my best to be the best, and I accomplished something worth being proud of. Not many other people on my team could smack a ball 350 yards over the right field fence.
I am who I am, and my inability to match my predetermined goals and aspirations doesn’t make me less of a person. Maybe I set the bar too high, but I tried my very best when there are millions of reasons to give up and so few reasons to continue trying—but I tried anyway, and I did something I never thought I would come to be proud of.
I let go, but I never stopped trying. The weight and pressure I faced have been released, and I finally understand what it means to be satisfied with hard work.
Tags
Academics, Mental health, Postscript
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