No time for perfection — giving anxiety the finger.

Today was the Monday-est of Mondays.
My boss is out of town, my two year old has a cold, and my eight year old cannot for the life of him find his binder. “But MOM! Without my binder my day will be OVER FOREVER!” *cue hysterics*

I try to catch the words of my foster mom before they tumble over my lips but they slip by anyway. “If it was truly important to you — you would have left it where you could find it easily. Why didn’t you put it with you clothes when I asked you to get them ready last night?”

He made a guttural noise in the back of his throat to voice his disapproval. I hate that noise. It is the audible counterpoint to the adolescent eye roll. He is eight years old. I thought I had a few more years before all of this. Apparently my child is an overachiever.

We made it to school five minutes late. I hate that. I reminded myself that he was dressed, fed, not bleeding, and running his away across the playground towards class and not still in bed asleep. He showed up. He made it — albeit late. It wasn’t perfect — but it was good enough.

Stacks of documents on my desk greeted me when I got into the office. The day was the organized chaos like normal. I bounced between walk-ins, billing questions, and dig away at the pile of to-dos. I wolfed down a sandwich from the shop next door while perusing the review questions for my finance test. Normally — my study practices are majestic. If I could make sweet sweet love to color coded, annotated, alphabetized note cards I would. The process of crafting those tools gives me the confidence I need when facing an exam. Was I prepared? Hell no. I studied faithfully through the course. I reviewed for several hours the previous weekend, and was eating and reading on my lunch. That being said, I wasn’t able to commit to the orgy of preparation that keeps my anxiety quiet.

There wasn’t meditation beforehand. I didn’t have beautifully crafted notes. I had a sandwich in one hand, highlighter in the other, and a ringing cell phone in my pocket. All of this at my desk accented by the door chime as clients flowed in and out.

Work wrapped up at six. I hopped in my car and made my way through traffic towards the exam site. I am not ready. If I don’t pass this test — my boss will have to pay for me to take it again. I am already on thin ice due to changing my work schedule to accommodate the toddler human’s preschool schedule. I am fairly certain that it will make my friends hate me, all the food in my fridge go bad at once, give me acne, make me gain 10lbs, and force me to vote Republican. My anxiety started to whisper, “why do you even try?” this is crazy. You aren’t ready. You didn’t prepare enough. You are not going to get a good grade — if you pass at all.” In short — my anxiety is an asshole.

I got the site with a few minutes to spare (insert self-high-five) and checked in.
It started easy enough. Around question five, in come the dreaded questions about variable annuities and the ramifications of tax free status for conversions. Seriously F my life. I remember annuities from my insurance license exam — but the tax law knowledge in my brain as officially left the building. I start to physically panic. My heartbeat races. My palms grow damp. I get the chills and the room begins to blur. My anxiety is doing the hula between my ears.

Since I was little — I equated perfection with my self-worth. If the task, idea, product wasn’t perfect then it wasn’t worth doing. Initially there were benefits coupled with this line of thinking. I was continuously pushing towards completing with the utmost quality. I wanted my work to be the gold standard. This worked for a while.

Midway through my twenties my anxiety developed into a full blown disorder. It has an opinion on every aspect of my life, coloring my view of the world and excels at being a douche waffle. I named it Andy. Shortly before my 30th birthday, I gave birth to epic tiny human number two. The combination of epic tiny humans 1&2, full time work schedule, full time college schedule to finally finish my bachelor’s degree, drawing and painting daily, and Jerk Face Anxiety Andy was just too much. I physically do not have the time to make it perfect. If I can’t make it perfect than I am a waste. It isn’t going to be what it needs to be. I have missed the mark. I should spare others the duty of having to experience the visceral product of my own human failings.

The confluence of worth and perfection have had 32 years to take root in me. I know on a surface level that this is a broken line of reasoning. My heart on the other hand — makes no such distinction. I would never say these words to my children. Yet, I am so comfortable saying these things to myself. I would tell my children, show up, work hard, be a finisher, and then let it go. Why is there a standard for them and a separate one for me?

I will be brave enough to embrace the power of being good enough.

Here I am, sitting at the proctor site in my work clothes, clicking aimlessly through the questions on an exam that has enormous ramifications on my employment. I put my head between my hands and take a deep breath — trying valiantly to slow my pulse. I give my anxiety the proverbial finger and banish him to the corner. “Shut up you big douche canoe. Can’t you see I have shit to do? You are not helping. Go sit down somewhere else.” I started using the line my sister tells me when I start to go down the brain drain, “Dude. You did the work you are giving your best even if it isn’t perfect. You showed up. Don’t forget, C’s get Degrees.” There is power to be found in doing good enough. Completion trumps perfection every time.

I picked C on all the questions regarding annuities and moved the heck on. The rest of the exam went quickly and I hit the almighty submit button.

I PASSED!!! I FREAKING PASSED. I have no idea if I got a C+ or an A+. It doesn’t matter. At this point I don’t give a crap. I finished. I studied with a sick baby on my lap, though lunch breaks, and late into the night. It wasn’t perfect but I showed up and did the thing. High Five for doing the thing!!!

I battle my intrinsic need for perfection and the crippling beast of anxiety every day. I continuously debate if the benefits of finishing outweigh my emotional need for it to be perfect. Sometimes perfection wins, other times, completion does. I don’t have a magical formula or a magic wand for my life. I do have the ability to pull fear from out of the shadows and into the light. I’ve earned the right to look it in the face and tell it to go sit somewhere else. It’s my fear. It lives here, but I don’t have to let it call the shots.

I work hard. I love big. I am committed to following my curiosity without shame, and I make cool things. There are already so many roadblocks to following work I was born to do. I will be brave enough to embrace the power of being good enough. Those that get there last still made it past the finish line.

When all else fails — C’s get degrees.
I will take it — C and all.

Originally published on December 28, 2015 on Sweatpants and Coffee.com