How I learned to let go of perfectionism: a lesson from my mother’s suicide

I used to think perfectionism was a charming personality quirklike dimples, but for people who alphabetize their spice rack and still feel
morally superior when the paprika is slightly crooked. I called it “high standards.” My friends called it “a lot.” My nervous system called it
“please stop.”

Then my mother died by suicide, and my obsession with getting everything right didn’t just look exhaustingit looked impossible. Grief is not a
project plan. It doesn’t respond to color-coded calendars. And the first lesson it taught me was blunt: perfection is a control strategy, not a
virtue. When control breaks, perfectionism panics.

This is the story of how I started loosening my gripnot by lowering my standards into the basement, but by learning a different kind of
“good enough,” one that makes room for love, limits, and being human.

Perfectionism isn’t “trying hard.” It’s trying to be safe.

There’s a version of striving that’s healthy: you care, you practice, you improve. And then there’s perfectionismthe kind that whispers,
“If you don’t nail this, you are the mistake.” Researchers often distinguish between two sides: the drive to achieve (sometimes called
perfectionistic strivings) and the fear-based side (perfectionistic concerns)worrying about mistakes, feeling never good enough, and assuming
other people are keeping score with a glitter pen.

That fear-based side is the one that tends to tangle itself with anxiety, depression, obsessive rumination, and the kind of self-criticism that
could make a cartoon villain say, “Okay, wow, that’s harsh.” In other words: perfectionism doesn’t just demand excellence. It demands
emotional certaintyan ironclad guarantee that if you do everything “right,” nothing terrible will happen.

And then something terrible happens anyway.

The day my perfectionism lost its job

When my mother died by suicide, my mind immediately tried to do what it always does under threat: build a flawless explanation. I replayed
conversations like a detective with insomnia. I combed through memories, hunting for the one clue that would convert chaos into a clean
conclusion.

Grief after suicide has its own weather system. It can include shock, anger, guilt, shame, confusion, and a uniquely painful kind of
“If I had…” that never runs out of fuel. There’s also the social layerpeople don’t always know what to say, and sometimes they disappear
entirely, as if loss were contagious. I felt like I had to grieve politely, efficiently, and in a way that didn’t make anyone else uncomfortable.
Which, in hindsight, is like trying to cry in a whisper.

I didn’t just miss my mother. I missed the version of reality where effort guaranteed outcomes. My perfectionism had promised me a contract:
do everything right and the people you love will stay safe. My mother’s death ripped that paper in half.

The lie perfectionism tells in grief

Perfectionism gets a lot of credit for being “motivating,” but its deeper function is often avoidance: if I can do life flawlessly, I won’t have
to feel powerless. After my mom died, that hunger for control went into overdrive. I tried to be the perfect mourner, the perfect child, the
perfect explainer of the unexplainable.

Here’s what I learned the hard way: perfectionism and grief don’t partner well. Grief is messy, nonlinear, and occasionally rude. It ignores
timelines. It interrupts meetings. It shows up in the grocery store aisle because you walked past her favorite cereal. And no amount of
“doing it right” makes it go away.

The question that finally cracked something open for me was this: What if perfection isn’t honoring herwhat if it’s hiding from pain?
That question didn’t cure me. But it gave me a direction.

What actually helped me loosen the grip

Not a single “aha” moment. Not a montage. Just small, repeatable choices that slowly retrained my brain away from punishment and toward care.
Here are the ones that mattered most.

1) I named my perfectionism rules (so I could argue with them)

Perfectionism thrives in vague threats“Be better.” So I started writing down its actual rules:

• “If I’m not productive, I’m wasting my life.”
• “If I cry too much, I’m dramatic.”
• “If I ask for help, I’m a burden.”
• “If I had been a better child, she’d still be here.”

Once those thoughts were on paper, they looked less like truth and more like a badly trained internal manager. (The kind who schedules a 7 a.m.
meeting called “You’re Not Enough.”) Naming them gave me enough distance to ask: Is this accurate? Is it fair? Is it helping?

2) I stopped confusing guilt with responsibility

Responsibility sounds like, “What can I do now?” Guilt sounds like, “I should have controlled the past.” After a suicide, guilt can become a
compulsive ritualif I suffer enough, maybe it proves I cared enough.

My therapist (bless therapists and their calm, unbothered facial expressions) helped me separate what I could influence from what I couldn’t.
Suicide is complex. It’s rarely one cause, one moment, or one person’s failure. Holding myself 100% accountable was emotionally seductive
because it implied I also had 100% power. I didn’t. No one does.

3) I practiced “good enough” on purpose (starting with low-stakes things)

I didn’t begin by letting grief be messy. I began by letting my emails be slightly less impressive.

Perfectionism is a muscle; you don’t relax it by yelling “RELAX!” at yourself. You relax it by safe experiments:

• Sending the message after one reread, not seven.
• Cooking a meal that was “fine,” not Michelin-adjacent.
• Leaving one small chore undone and noticing the sky didn’t collapse.
• Allowing silence in conversation without filling it with performance.

Over time, my brain learned a new equation: imperfect doesn’t equal unsafe.

4) I treated self-compassion like a skill, not a personality type

I used to think self-compassion was for people who own matching pajama sets and wake up refreshed. Turns out it’s for the rest of usespecially
those of us whose default motivation strategy is verbal self-violence.

The research world keeps finding what my perfectionism refused to believe: kindness is not laziness. Self-compassion is associated with better
emotional well-being and lower distress, and it can reduce the shame spiral that keeps people stuck. In plain language: you change more
sustainably when you don’t hate yourself through the process.

My go-to self-compassion script was painfully simple: This is hard. I’m not alone. I can take the next right step. No inspirational
posters required.

5) I let grief be real instead of “acceptable”

I had internalized the idea that grief should look a certain way: cry, recover, return to normal, preferably before anyone starts avoiding you
at parties. But grief isn’t a straight lineit’s a relationship you learn to live with. Some days you function. Some days you can’t find the
words. Both are normal.

I stopped timing my healing. I stopped grading my progress. I started noticing what helped: sleep, food, movement, sunlight, honest
conversations, and permission to have feelings without turning them into a moral verdict.

6) I found support that understood suicide loss (not just “loss”)

Suicide bereavement can come with specific needs: stigma, complicated questions, and a different kind of trauma exposure. General grief support
helped, but connecting with people who understood suicide loss helped in a sharper, relieving way. I learned that “postvention” isn’t a cold
clinical wordit’s care after a suicide, meant to support the bereaved and reduce risk for others who might be vulnerable.

I tried individual therapy, a support group, and carefully chosen friendsthe ones who could handle the sentence “I miss her” without
immediately trying to fix it.

7) I replaced perfection with meaning

Perfectionism asks, “Did I do this flawlessly?” Meaning asks, “Did I do this with love?” When I stopped chasing a perfect explanation for my
mother’s death, I had room to focus on what I could actually do: remember her as a whole person, keep learning about mental health, and build a
life that doesn’t require constant self-punishment to feel valid.

I began small rituals: making a dish she loved, writing her letters, speaking her name out loud, letting memories be both painful and warm.
Letting go of perfectionism didn’t erase grief. It just made grief less lonely.

A practical toolbox for when perfectionism flares up

Perfectionism doesn’t disappear because you read one insightful essay (even a very charming one). It comes back when you’re tired, when you’re
stressed, when you’re afraid. Here’s what I use when it shows up with its clipboard and attitude.

The “80% on purpose” practice

Pick one task per day and do it to 80%. Stop. Walk away. Let your body learn the difference between “unfinished” and “unsafe.” Start tiny:
a text message, a simple meal, a workout you don’t optimize into a dissertation.

The rumination interrupt

If your mind keeps replaying the past, try this three-step reset:

1. Name it: “I’m ruminating.”
2. Ground it: notice five things you can see, four you can feel, three you can hear.
3. Redirect it: one action in the present (drink water, step outside, text a friend, wash one dish).

The “talk to yourself like you’d talk to someone you love” test

If your inner voice sounds like a sports commentator who only knows the word “disappointing,” ask: Would I say this to a friend who just
lost their mother? If the answer is no, revise the sentence until it’s true, kind, and realistic.

But what if perfectionism is how you show love?

This one hurt to admit. A lot of my perfectionism was devotion in disguise. If I got everything right, maybe my mother would feel proud. Maybe
she’d feel safe. Maybe I’d finally earn the gold star that would protect us both.

Many people grow up absorbing intense expectationssometimes explicit, sometimes subtle. Achievement culture can teach kids (and adults) that
worth is performance. Over time, that can turn “I want to do well” into “I must not fail,” and fear becomes the engine. Letting go isn’t
abandoning love. It’s refusing to confuse love with pressure.

I still work hard. I still care. I just don’t believe my work needs to be perfect to be meaningfulor that my grief needs to be “impressive”
to be real.

One important note about suicide and support

If you’re reading this and you’re grieving a suicide: you’re not crazy, broken, or behind. Suicide loss can be traumatic. Getting support is
not a luxuryit’s part of healing.

If you or someone you know is in immediate danger or thinking about self-harm, seek urgent help. In the United States, you can call or text
988 (the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline). If you’re outside the U.S., contact your local emergency number or crisis line in your
country.

Conclusion: letting go is not forgetting

I didn’t “get over” my mother’s suicide. I learned to carry it differently. I stopped treating pain like a personal failure. I stopped trying to
earn certainty through flawless performance. And slowly, I started choosing something steadier than perfection: honesty, support, and a kind of
courage that doesn’t require me to be impeccable to be worthy.

I still have perfectionist days. But now I can recognize them for what they are: fear wearing a fancy suit. And I can answer with something
gentlersomething my mother, I think, would have wanted for me all along.

Experience Addendum : The messy, human moments that taught me “good enough”

Here are the moments I don’t put on social mediathe ones that actually rewired me.

1) The funeral program incident. I tried to design the “perfect” program: the right photo, the right font, the right phrasing.
I spent hours adjusting margins like alignment could protect me from sorrow. At some point, I realized I was trying to out-design grief. I
printed it anywaytypos and all. And nobody cared. People cared that she mattered. That was my first clue: love is not a formatting contest.

2) The apology I didn’t want to make. After my mom died, I became hyper-responsible. I over-functioned. I corrected people
mid-sentence. I “helped” in ways that were secretly control. One day a friend said, gently, “I miss you. You seem… far.” My perfectionism
wanted to defend itself with a PowerPoint presentation titled Reasons I’m Right. Instead, I said, “I’m scared all the time.” That
confession did more for my relationships than any perfect performance ever did.

3) The day I let someone see my unfinished feelings. I used to think I needed to process everything privately so I could present
a neat, resolved version of myself to the world. But grief isn’t a problem you solve; it’s a reality you live. I started telling the truth in
smaller doses: “Today is rough,” “I’m getting triggered,” “I miss her and I don’t know what to do with that.” Every time I said it out loud,
the feeling became less radioactive. Not smallerjust less isolating.

4) Practicing “good enough” with my body. Perfectionism isn’t only mentalit’s physical. It tightens your shoulders, shortens
your breath, turns rest into guilt. I began making deals with myself: a short walk counts; stretching counts; drinking water counts; eating
something simple counts. My nervous system needed evidence that care could be ordinary. I stopped turning self-care into another competition
I could fail.

5) Rewriting the story of what “being a good child” means. For a while, my definition was: never disappoint anyone, anticipate
every need, fix every feeling. After my mother’s suicide, that definition nearly broke me. Eventually I replaced it with: show up honestly,
love people in ways that are real, ask for help, and keep going. “Good child” became less about being flawless and more about being present.

6) Letting joy exist without paying for it. This one surprised me. I thought if I laughed, it meant I didn’t love her enough.
If I enjoyed a meal, it meant I was “moving on.” Perfectionism even tried to control happiness: If you’re not devastated, you’re failing.
Over time I learned that joy doesn’t cancel griefit coexists with it. Laughing didn’t betray my mother. It proved I was still alive.

These experiences didn’t cure perfectionism; they just taught me a better reflex. When my brain reaches for control, I ask: What am I afraid
will happen if I’m imperfect? Then I answer with one small act of courage: send the draft, take the nap, ask for support, say the truth.
That’s how “good enough” becomes a practicenot a slogan.