The Perfectionist’s Prison

Dear Delyara, I was a prisoner of the 'Grind' of perfection. My house had to be spotless, my kids had to be the best in class, and my hair had to be perfect. The shadow was the constant anxiety that one mistake would reveal me as a fraud. I was grinding my health into the floor trying to be a 'Superwoman.' I finally collapsed from exhaustion in the middle of a grocery store. That was my 'Fire.' It burned away my pride. I had to learn to live with 'good enough.' My Victoria was the day I invited friends over and didn't clean the kitchen first. We sat among the crumbs and laughed for hours. The victory was realizing that people don't love you for your perfection; they love you for your mess. I am finally human again.