The Illusion of the Perfect Parent
Seeking perfection as a coping mechanism
Hello readers and friends,
Today’s newsletter is a *longer* reflection I had recently after watching a reel describing how perfectionism is actually a trauma response that some folks use as a way to cope with the unrealistic expectations that were put on them, as well as not being allowed to express real and uncomfortable emotions. Watching this reel was a powerful moment for me, because it clicked into place the reality that trying to be a perfect parent is more about contorting myself around my childhood wounds than it is about showing up in my fullness. It’s a coping mechanism that seeks to do everything right, and yet, ironically, makes me feel like I’m never doing enough.
I don’t think I’m the only one here that has felt this way. It’s threaded through so many of the stories I’ve been privileged to witness over my years as a mother. If this story resonates with you, I’d love to hear from you.
I grew up as a perfectionist. My room had to be nice and tidy and orderly, my grades needed to be A’s, and I wasn’t allowed to have difficult emotions or behaviours. At some point early on in my life, these things transitioned from being imposed on me by my big people to being imposed internally—their voices became my own so quickly that I don’t actually remember a time when it wasn’t in my own head. But my body does.
Every time I go home to be with family, my body becomes resistant and yet also strangely permeable to the unspoken expectations that surround me. I walk through the door as if there were eggshells strewn about the foyer. It’s like I’m 12 again, and I become defensive and totally out of alignment with who I am when I’m in my own home or with my safe people. I hate the feeling, and when we leave I wonder why I reacted the way I did.
It wasn’t like this before I had kids. As a single person, or even a newly married person, I could still keep up the mirage that I was perfect. I could control my own behaviour to be pleasing to everyone around me, and when I did make a mistake, I could scramble to erase it before anyone knew. My life was dependant on people who could not hold space for my triggering behaviours or uncomfortable emotions, so I chose people pleasing and perfection over authenticity for my own safety.
The story I created from these conditions was that I needed to try harder, do more, be better, and that being myself was a threat to my attachment to my parents. I’ve slowly recognized that this behaviour is not weak—it was the only way I knew how to survive conditions that were not ideal. I needed to be perfect in order to maintain that relationship. And when I did, all was “well.”
But things began shifting, first when I became a mother, then when Declan left babyhood and entered the toddler phase. As his opinions, and subsequently his emotions, got bigger, it made my big people more uncomfortable. This, in turn, created a visceral reaction in me that felt the need to stop his big feelings and curtail any “inappropriate” behaviours before they started. The only problem is that he would not bend to my will or be controlled by the tactics that controlled me (which I am forever humbled by and grateful for). This has caused a great deal of silent discord in my familial relationships.
But it was never about him, was it? It was about my parents own wounds that translated to being intolerant of behaviours and feelings that aren’t comfortable. It was about me and the stories I’ve been told about how children ‘should’ act and who they ‘should’ be. It was about the cycle of pain, shame, and inauthenticity not knowing anything but to repeat itself. When the threat of attachment continues to live deep in our bones, we will do anything to just make the discomfort stop instead of making space for it.
As I journey along this path, I wanted to share my current guideposts with you, in case they might help illuminate your own. There are no how-tos here; only one person taking step by unknown step into the dark and daring to share what’s been found. Take what resonates, leave what doesn’t.
Perfection might feel good when I meet expectations, but it can’t tolerate my mistakes.
There’s a funny sort of myth that accompanies perfectionism, at least for me, that at some point, all my hard work will line up and I will never have to do it again. I will reach a state of being where I know how to handle all the things and do all the things and be all the things. I will have learned all the lessons I need to learn to do everything right the first time; therefore, I will no longer make mistakes. The only problem is…this isn’t humanly possible.
I hope this seems obvious to most of you, but it really has only been in the last couple years that I started to accept that I will forever be making small movements in search of balance, uncovering what’s true to me, learning the same lessons in new ways, experimenting and making mistakes. The perfectionist in me feels hopeless and defeated at this thought—how can I control a situation if I have no idea what the outcome will be? How can I make sure everyone is always happy if I accept the fact that I might disappoint them or hurt them? How can I avoid pain, conflict, and discomfort without being perfect?
I can’t.
But there’s something bigger and more expansive inside me—God, Love, Creator, a Higher Power—that knows this is where creativity and wonder and exploration…and healing live. My perfectionist was there to help me survive, and I’m thankful for the ways she did her best; now I’m finding a new part of me is needed to help me thrive.
Seeking perfection as a hustle for worth places unrealistic expectations on myself, my children, and everyone watching me.
Tying my worth to being a perfect parent is like taking a dingy out on the ocean in a storm; it’s unstable, unpredictable, and unlikely to feel secure. And yet the temptation of our current parenting paradigm is to do just that—why else do we find it so difficult to sit with triggering behaviours and big feelings? In my perspective, what I see deep down is fear—that we aren’t doing our job “right” and we will be harshly judged by our community if our children don’t meet their expectations. These fears are real and valid.
As I’ve walked this path and learned to tie my worth to my own being, I’ve been able to release the need for perfection and impressing others. And as done so, I’ve discovered that, even in the midst of my children’s imperfections, those people have watched me respond with patience and kindness and encouragement, and it has shown them that there is a different way than what they were taught.
Not only that, it has healed parts of them they didn’t know needed healing.
I don’t say that lightly. Jason and I have been told this by numerous folks, some with kids and some without, but all of which had complicated and painful childhoods. When we see someone approaching a challenge in a way that is more life-giving than what we’ve experienced, it unlocks something deeply transformative inside us. We see it and we say “Yes, that’s what feels true to me.” It’s simultaneously bitter and sweet: we see what we wanted for ourselves but never received, and at the same time discover hope for what could be.
My need for perfection is often a cover-up
When I’m feeling full and connected and joyful, I’m not as bothered by spilled milk and wildness and tears. However, when I’m running on fumes, full of feelings I keep trying to shove down, or not living into my purpose, I can’t tolerate the messiness of life.
I recognized in my mid-20s that being selfish isn’t the negative thing we’re told it is. If I don’t learn what I need to fill my own cup, grow and heal, and remember that I am enough, I will always be looking for others to do it for me—especially my partner and children. Or worse, I will keep pouring and pouring and pouring until I am a lifeless, burnt out shell of a person, becoming more distracted, irritable, prone to numbing, perfection-seeking, controlling, and dismissive of feelings. It’s hard to find joy, confidence, silliness, curiousity, wonder, empathy, and flexibility when I’m empty—and I can’t give to others what I don’t have.
If you need permission, here it is: It’s okay to spend time doing what you love simply because you love it, and not because it makes money or serves anyone else. It’s okay to have space and let others carry the load for a bit. It’s okay to notice when you are burnt out (according to my survey, every single person who responded was experiencing symptoms of parental burnout. All mothers, too) and ask yourself what you need that’s just for you. It’s okay if guilt comes up—you can hold space for it, feel through it, and do the thing anyway (sometimes guilt can let us know when we’ve made a mistake, but sometimes it’s based on unhelpful beliefs about what we “should” and “shouldn’t” do and can be released). It’s absolutely essential to be selfish, keep your cup overflowing, and nurture your intrinsic purpose in life.
My connection with my children can tolerate mistakes when I seek to make repairs, but it cannot tolerate a pattern of denial, dismissiveness, or silence.
I wonder if the lie I believed most heavily while searching to be the perfect parent is that mistakes cannot be repaired. I don’t think my parents apologized for anything that happened when I was a child. Even as an adult, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard “I’m sorry” (or some attempt at that). Instead, I was told that I didn’t feel what I felt or that what I perceived to have happened didn’t actually happen; often, I just wasn’t told anything.
Because I didn’t want to repeat the mistakes my parents made, I believed that the only other option was perfection. When I think about it now, of course that’s what I was trying to do—maybe that’s what a lot of us are trying to do. Many of us grew up in the thick of a behavioural approach to parenting, obedience culture, and raising children to become fit for the marketplace. I understand that these paradigms have good intentions, absolutely, and our parents have done their best to improve our lives with the knowledge available to them.
I don’t think the problem was that they made mistakes—but rather that they tended to deny that they did anything wrong, dismissed our feelings when we felt hurt by their actions, or just shut down the conversation entirely with silence. The truth is, mistakes are unavoidable—I will do the wrong thing, say the wrong thing, be a disappointment to the people I love. This truth initially filled me with despair, because I had no other map to help me understand what it means to be a good parent.
Then I came across the concept of repair through Dr. Becky of Good Inside (who was on the We Can Do Hard Things podcast). Repair is simply the process of acknowledging when we make a mistake, apologizing, and making amends. I think there’s an unconscious belief that apologizing to children exposes your mistakes and makes you seem weak. My experience, however, has shown me that it actually takes a great deal of strength, not only to apologize, but to practice self-compassion first so I can show up fully in my worth, without defences. And every time I do, the person on the other end shows me that they feel much safer in our relationship because of it.
Imagine a time when you felt hurt, misunderstood, or dismissed by your big people, and when you told them, they didn’t respond in the way you hoped. Imagine that you get to do it again, and this time, when you tell them how you feel, they stop, look at you, and say “I hear that what I did was hurtful to you. I was doing my best in that moment, but it wasn’t what you needed from me. I’m sorry. Can we try again?” How would that change your relationship? Your perception of mistakes?
We’re doing our best, every one of us. And it is enough. May we learn to live into our deep sense of worth, reclaim the beauty of selfishness, apologize often, and heal the culture around us.
What stories have you told yourself about being “good enough?”
In what ways do you hold unrealistic expectations, hustle for your self-worth, or engage in a pattern of dismissiveness of yourself and/or others?
When your relationships rupture, does repair come naturally to you? How can you practice repair with those you love?