I gather my wits at the door knowing that my long-time rival stands just on the other side. Once I find the will, I swing the door open to see my nemesis sitting smugly on the counter: a charcuterie board. The gooey brie, buttery crackers, and dollop of fig jam call out to me as I salivate at the thought of their harmonious flavors. There is, however, one slight problem: I am a self-identified vegan. At home, where I’m in control, my tofu and quinoa meals look like they come from a passionate mother’s food blog. But when I go out, this self-control quickly dissipates. Suddenly, all hell breaks loose. A mysterious gravitational force sweeps me off my feet and places me right in front of the platter. And who am I to fight fate? I sample every item in sight. I’m in heaven. However, with cheese and jam smeared across my face like a rabid animal, it hits me what I’ve done. I lay down for the next day unable to move due to guilt and a dairy-induced stomach ache. 

As a lifelong perfectionist, these were the moments I most dreaded. I often looked at myself in the mirror and saw someone who was perpetually incomplete, dreaming that with enough discipline and self-control, a better version of myself was around the corner. Become vegan and I’d be healthier, read four books a month and I’d be smarter, meditate for an hour every morning and I’d be calmer. I transformed every day actions – like speaking up in class – into more venerable “goals.” I soaked up praise from my teachers and parents, who saw me as self-motivated and driven. I mastered the art of “becoming” and relentlessly pursued this perfect version of myself, even when I doubted that I wanted to be her. 

Ultimately, my long quest for an ideal self was cut short by the unremarkable charcuterie board. As I considered my powerlessness at the sight of salami, I was forced to acknowledge the consequences of my pursuit of perfection. Perfection, I discovered, had become a form of avoidance. By striving for a flawless and uniform life, I didn’t have to confront the contradictory parts of my identity. My desire to eat meat and my outrage about the horrors of factory farming. My interest in fashion and my frustration about the fashion industry’s wasteful and unethical practices. My eagerness to spend time with my friends and my preference for taking long, contemplative walks alone. My inclination towards organization and routine and my deep yearning for spontaneity. I suddenly recognized the fundamental problem with my definition of perfectionism: it offered a simple, pass-or-fail metric for my thoughts and feelings, allowing me to achieve my goals without ever growing. 

Since then, I’ve learned to embrace the incongruous parts of myself and savor the unpredictable results. I combined my fascination for art and sustainability by creating a business selling collages made from old packaging and upcycled clothes sewn from recycled textiles. I rush from a meeting of the Mind Body Spirit Club to the gym, where I’ve joined a community of brawny powerlifters. My calming, reflective walks are punctuated by the rambunctious and free-spirited children I teach at my work at The ArtBeat. I love creating these unlikely combinations because they allow me to explore new passions and opportunities to grow every day.

Perfectionism no longer looks like avoiding cheese. Although I am still an avid yogi and dabble in vegan recipes, having discipline in these areas is futile without the ability to appreciate the beauty in the other, contrasting parts of my identity. Like a slice of brie, perfection is a delicate balance of the rigid, bloomy rind of setting ambitious goals and the creamy, rich interior of welcoming the unknown every day.