Walk Home Together

“Little Miss Perfect”

Insults hurt the worst when you know they’re accurate. It was written in white shoe polish on the windshield of my dad’s hand-me-down Blazer, my first car. When I came outside that fall Saturday morning to go babysit, he was already standing out there, looking confused. I swallowed the lump in my throat and acted like I thought it was funny. I went inside to get some Windex to clean it off so I could see to drive. I wasn’t sure who did it, but it didn’t matter. I got the message. 

I knew I was a goody-goody. Didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t cuss, had only just recently kissed a boy for the first time, ever. Never broke the dress code, never broke the speed limit, never got in trouble for anything, ever. 

If you gave me a rule, I’d follow it, no questions asked. Set an expectation on what a “nice girl” should or shouldn’t do and I was frantically taking notes so I could meet it. 

I was regimented. Guarded. Fake. The list of superficial do’s and don’t’s inside my brain was often overwhelming, but strangely comforting at the same time. Perfectionism is addictive to the anxious mind. So yes, I was trying my damndest to be Little Miss Perfect. I thought I was supposed to. 

Looking back I can see that the anxiety I was suffering from made me insufferable. 

That was the root of it; I realize now. I wasn’t trying to be some annoying Stepford Pollyanna. I was trying to survive. I didn’t act this way because I thought I was better than everybody else; it was because I thought I was so much worse. That’s what anxiety does to you. It takes away the lightness, the joy. I hurt for that girl and what she missed out on. The friendships. The adventures. The fun she could have had. 

I have lots of regrets about that period of my life. So much wasted time and energy on things that didn’t matter. So much worry, so much stress. 

I wish I had known much sooner how beautiful life could be if I had just learned to ease the hell up. Compassion for yourself translates into compassion for others and isn’t that the whole point? 

I will always struggle with anxiety, but with age and life experience I’m getting better at coping. When I finally realized that perfection is an illusion, everything shifted. There is such freedom in owning your flaws and mistakes; it helps other people feel safe in owning theirs. You can be full of faults, together. Nobody needs perfect friends, perfect spouses or perfect kids. Perfection means there’s nothing there to bond with. Nothing real to connect over. 

Think about it. The times you connect most with people are the times when you’re a mess. When you’ve screwed up or been screwed over. When things are decidedly imperfect. Don’t hide it. Don’t get defensive. Own it. It’s scary but so empowering. Because that’s when your sweet, fragile vulnerability can peek out. And the ones who love you can see it and adore you all the more for it. 

Nobody, including yourself, needs you to be perfect. Just real.