In Search of “Enough” (Part II)

I remember it perfectly — the long, wood-paneled hallway lined with posters of molars, Colgate ads, and colorful construction paper cutouts listing the names of cavity-free kids that month. Below the wall of names was a cardboard box, filled with plastic toys and candy, reserved for the most diligent brushers. Those who left the dentist with a cavity-free mouth could pick a prize. My name always graced that wall, and as I strolled down the hallway, I felt certain I’d soon be fishing out my reward, just as I always had.

Thirty minutes later, however, my smugness turned to utter despondency when the dentist called my mother in from the waiting room to tell us that I, in fact, had my first cavity.

The room blurred as I stood up from the plastic-covered chair. At ten years old, it felt like the end of the world. I hung my head, defeated, as I passed the wall of names, which now seemed to mock me and my oral failure. I couldn’t even look at the box of toys. As soon as we checked out and stepped into the humid Texas summer air, I burst into tears. I didn’t stop crying until the next morning. I locked myself in my room and didn’t speak to anyone for hours, as I tried to comprehend what this failure meant for my identity.

And what did it mean? Failure, to me, meant I wasn’t enough.

Fast forward 23 years.

I’m sitting on my couch on a Friday afternoon, my chest tight, mind racing, and tears welling in my eyes — this time because I hadn’t worked a solid eight hours without distraction, a familiar heaviness that I’ve felt dozens of times. Once more, I’d fallen short of the productivity standards I’d set for myself. In a subconscious effort to motivate myself, I whispered the harsh words: “You should’ve worked harder. You should be more like your coworkers. You should be better.” Eventually, exhausted from the self-criticism, I tried to remind myself of a deeper truth: “My identity is not defined by my output.” And while that thought offered some temporary relief, deep down, I still couldn’t shake the feeling of not being good enough.

In a subconscious effort to motivate myself, I whispered the harsh words: “You should’ve worked harder. You should be more like your coworkers. You should be better.”

Over the past decade, I’ve spent countless hours in therapy, read all the books, and listened to every podcast about identity, inadequacy, and self-doubt. Yet I still found myself leaving most social interactions beating myself up for sounding stupid, or ending most days feeling like I didn’t measure up. What was this lingering sense of “not-enough-ness” that clung to my psyche? And why wouldn’t it go away?

Then, on a morning run in late June, I listened to a podcast that made something click in my brain. You know how sometimes someone says something that perfectly aligns with your inner experience, so much so that it makes you feel all tingly inside? That’s what happened to me that day when I heard Thomas Curran, a professor and psychologist, explain perfectionism. I’d always dismissed the idea of being a perfectionist, thinking I just had high standards, but not perfect ones. I even compared my achievements to others to convince myself otherwise — if I were a perfectionist, I reasoned, I would’ve had straight A’s and be a millionaire by now!

But Curran has dedicated his career to studying perfectionism, and his definition made me realize that it’s indeed my perfectionist tendencies that trap me in a cycle of striving and self-criticism. According to Curran, perfectionism isn’t just about setting high standards — it’s about a pervasive sense of never being good enough. His research shows that true perfectionists aren’t always high achievers; they’re the ones who crumble when they fail to meet the standards they or others have set.

Perfectionism isn’t just about setting high standards — it’s about a pervasive sense of never being good enough.

As my feet pounded the asphalt that morning, I realized that this was me. I don’t expect perfection from my efforts, but anything less than the standard I’ve set for myself feels like failure, and I punish myself accordingly. More than that, I’m constantly on the lookout for ways I’ve fallen short — almost as if being aware of my flaws could protect me from accepting a lesser version of myself.

Curran’s insights into perfectionism made me feel less alone in my insecurities. I finally had the language to describe what I’ve felt my entire life, and it was strangely invigorating. But I also felt a sense of fear because, for the first time, I recognized the serious impact of my self-criticism. As I’ve noted, it’s a common misconception that perfectionists are high achievers, and in reality, there’s little correlation. Perfectionists often overwork in one area of life to prove themselves, while neglecting other areas that bring them peace and fulfillment.

It’s a common misconception that perfectionists are high achievers, and in reality, there’s little correlation.

For example, when work is stressful, I’ll wake up early and skip my morning routine just to answer Slack messages and fix as many bugs as I can before 7:30 a.m. That morning routine — my time to breathe, meditate, read, and sip coffee — is the highlight of my day. It’s my moment of calm before the storm, and my reminder that I’m more than a hard worker, more than a software developer. Yet, I drop it in favor of clinging to that one identity I believe will make me feel enough. And where does that get me? According to Curran’s studies, this kind of overworking to prove our worth actually leads to worse performance. When we don’t allow ourselves to recharge, our productivity suffers, and so do we.

As I arrived back at my doorstep that morning, with the sun turning the horizon from purple-blue to bright pink, I knew I needed to change. I understood my insecurities in a way I hadn’t before, and I was utterly exhausted from the way I’d been viewing myself. For the sake of my mental and physical health, my performance, and my overall well-being, I had to start practicing self-compassion and kindness in ways I never had before.

How did I do it? I’ll dive into that in my next article, so stay tuned.