The problem with perfectionists, albeit not the only one, is that they’re like lobsters about to be cooked. They’re not only the lobsters placed into the pot, but they’re also the chefs tossing them in and closing the lid behind them.
All the little mistakes. All the big ones. Failures. They all move the water toward boiling. The perfectionist doesn’t notice at first. The temperature isn’t uncomfortable. She thinks she can handle it. She does, for a time. She hasn’t realized there’s no way out. She’s closed the only way of escape.
Another day, another blunder. The water bubbles. The perfectionist feels the discomfort. She wants out. Too late—she’s locked herself into this bubblebath of death. She claws at her metal cage. She shrieks. Nothing. She is the chef of her own making, and her own making is gruesome, the thing of thrillers and horror stories.
Fortunately, she isn’t the head chef. She often thinks and acts like she is, but she isn’t. One day, a long time ago, she admitted her need for someone to lead her. She submitted her life to Him. She accepted His grace. She chose His standard—one of life and wonder—over her own.
Although she may often act the head chef (and the lobster), she is never left to her own devices. When she is trapped in yet another pressure cooker, He comes. He pulls her out and sets her straight. He reminds her of who she is. He guides her away from the self-destructive tendencies and toward an expansive and adventurously expectant life.
Image: Naotake Murayama (Creative Commons)
[…] failures could snuff out hope, but they don’t, at least not very often. My perfectionism sometimes gets the better of me, and I sink into a morass of negativity and despair. Usually, […]