I'm sorry! Life got in the way.

(by life, I mean perfectionism.)

My sweet mom, Patti, passed a lot of things down to me – an insatiable love of music, desire to help others, and an outgoing nature to name a few.

She also gave me her propensity to be anxious, out of control stress levels, and a massive case of perfectionism. I watched that last trait hold her back a lot, just as I’ve let it stop me in my tracks.

When I first started putting our story out there, I thought it would be simple: just share our experience and that’s that. But time and time again, I got hung up on the details: is it my absolute best? Will it be well received? How is the spacing? Did I edit it enough?

IS IT PERFECT?

Time and again, whether it was an Instagram share, an email to a client, or a post here on Substack, I always get to a point in the creative process that stops me like Atreyu’s horse in the Swamp of Sadness.

Unable to move I will swim in a sea of my own critical thoughts.

The past couple of months I’ve analyzed this (lol perfectionism) and have come to realize how much this personality trait has held me back. From elementary school until now it has plagued me.

Funny enough, the only part of my life where I’ve gotten over my perfectionism tendencies is when it comes to caregiving. Sure, in the beginning I struggled with it there too – always making sure Mom was happy, had enough to do, reading all the research on dementia, and showing up for her every day, even if just on the phone, like the good daughter I am.

It wasn’t until I noticed the perfectionism-induced caregiver stress was affecting not only my mind but my body. This started manifesting as a tight chest, an upset tummy, a clenched jaw, and tense shoulders. My desire to walk with my mom on this Alzheimer’s journey became a race with myself to be “the best” (whatever that even means).

Any shower I took was rushed so I could get right back to her. If someone else was with her but not “entertaining her enough,” I would get upset. There wasn’t a day that I considered not calling her if we weren’t together.

But one day, these symptoms literally struck me down and I could barely move. Maybe a panic attack or simply my body saying enough is enough, but regardless, it was a sign of the self-inflicted pain.

So about 5 years ago, I decided to ditch this long held belief, at least as it relates to providing care. I *slowly* began putting my body’s needs first and foremost (cue the mask/airplane cliché that happens to be very valid). I realized that my health and wellbeing was just as important as Mom’s.

I was struck with the ah ha moment: doing my best is perfection. Trying to show up is perfection. I am already the perfect caregiver.

You see, perfect is merely a mind state: arbitrary rules we each make up to hinder us, to get us stuck in the quicksand of our thoughts.

And for some reason, this was easy for me to identify as a caregiver, but in all other areas of my life it’s persisted, especially as I launch myself and our story into the ethers of the interwebs.

Today that stops.

• I’m not going to edit this post for weeks.

• I’m not going to wait because I think another story is more important.

• I’m not going to judge myself for all of the posts I could have written between February and now.

Because life doesn’t work that way. We can either choose to stay stuck or choose to move forward. We cannot change the past. And I am ready to share, in a more authentic and real way than I ever have before.

For those of you who read my first Substack posts many months ago, and to those of you who have already subscribed, I am sorry - sorry I got in my own way and didn’t finish the story I started. I promise that is coming later this week…

Just know, it may not be *perfect*.