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When Perfection is Your Goal, You Have a Long Way to Fall
I will preface this essay by sharing that I am a recovering perfectionist. It wasn’t until I was almost forty years old that I realized this was the case. Once I did, my life became both easier and more challenging, simultaneously. What came next changed my life and that’s what I intend to share with you here.
It was the late fall of 1993 and I was having my final walk through with the social worker before I could be certified as a potential foster parent. She was a pleasant woman named Sheila and a mother of two toddlers of her own. We walked down the hallway leading from my master bedroom back into the living room, and as we turned the corner I’ll never forget what she said.
“You’re a perfectionist, Connie. These children will be coming to you from a variety of traumatic situations and highly dysfunctional families and won’t be able to meet your standards.”
I waited a moment before addressing her comment. It was in a defensive tone I answered “I am not a perfectionist. Just look around, nothing here is perfect.”
She smiled politely and changed the subject.
As she backed out of my driveway and drove down the street, I watched until her care was out of sight. I was not happy about what she had said and it hurt me that she didn’t allow me to…
