Perfectionists Anonymous Meets Every Thursday and I Hope Not To See You There

The art of trying, lowering your expectations, and embracing your mysteriously imperfect journey.

New grandpuppy teaches little Weston how to make hay of imperfection.

There are two types of people in this world: those who believe in shooting for the moon and those who know that sometimes 'good enough' means you actually finished something instead of abandoning it in a fit of perfectionism.

I've been both people, sometimes within the same hour.

What is better than having high expectations? On paper, it sounds fantastic. Like those people who wake up at 5 a.m. to meditate and drink kale smoothies. Hooray for them. Really.

But then I've also heard, "Good enough is the way," especially as a writer who obsesses over each word like it will be etched into my tombstone. Here lies a woman who used "nevertheless" when she should have used "however." So, I've made this weekly commitment to myself for this newsletter--done is better than perfect.

I toggle between these two philosophies the way some (I mean me) have waffled between diets. Monday: carbs are evil. Wednesday: ice cream for breakfast! Friday is an 18-hour fast.

My parents had impossibly high expectations for me. They came to America with nothing but a suitcase and the irrational belief that their daughter would become a professional doctor, lawyer, or, at the very least, someone who understands calculus. They saw me as having every advantage, which mostly meant I had no excuses.

They sent me to a private all-girls high school where the bars were routinely set high. I struggled mightily in math class, my least favorite period of the day. I would rather have had a root canal than solve for x. X could keep its secrets, thank you very much.

Mrs. Bader, my math teacher, asked whether I would be signing up for the next-level Analysis class. That class sounded like my worst nightmare because I was already drowning in her Algebra II class. I shook my head no as she tilted her black cat-eye glasses at me.

"Why not?" her question floated down from her lips as she lifted a worksheet from my desk, probably wondering how someone could make so many errors in one assignment.

"Because I don't know what I want to be yet," I said, skipping the part about how a life without advanced math was perfectly acceptable to me.

As an average student who had opted for the business track, taking courses like typing and stenography, my highest aspiration was to someday be a secretary.

"That's exactly why you should take it," she said as if I'd just made her point rather than trying to wiggle out of it.

I said nothing, groaning inside. My parents didn't help me make class selections because they were too busy working multiple jobs so that I could have "every advantage." So Mrs. Bader had to bear witness as I struggled mightily in her class the following semester, like watching someone try to swim the English Channel using only the doggy paddle.

I didn't fail the class, but didn't do great either. Barbara Bader challenged my understanding that taking on something difficult was no reason not to do it. She is the one teacher who impacted me the most because, decades later, she still haunts me. In my recurring dream, I explain to Mrs. Bader why I cut all my math classes, inexplicably not realizing I couldn't graduate without the credits. So there I sit next to her desk, trying to solve four years of math problems while my classmates walk down the aisle in their graduation gowns. I'm still in my pajamas, naturally, because that's how anxiety dreams work.

Only recently have I understood the second prong of the lesson. You shouldn't shy away from something you consider difficult but don't expect to knock your friends' socks off when you do.

You may remember that I started singing lessons in December. (You can read about it here.) That had been an aspiration that I'd shelved long ago, filed under "Things I'll Do When I'm Brave Enough," right next to "Wear a Bikini After 60" and "Tell the Hairdresser I Don't Like the Cut."

But after a compelling LinkedIn post by my pal

Christopher Landriau

(don't you hate it when LinkedIn actually works?), I'm in month 6, and some days, I wonder WTF I'm doing. The dogs next door howl when I practice, and the neighbors have stopped saying hello.

Why keep learning to sing?

My answer is always because I love singing, but I don't always love learning to sing. Some of these exercises are as excruciating as walking over a bed of red-hot coals. Why does my voice sound as if it belongs to Squiggy? Like someone put my vocal cords in a blender and pressed "liquefy."

Chris is happy with my progress, telling me how well I've benefited from my consistency. I guess I should be thrilled, too, like how you're supposed to feel after eating your vegetables.

I've noticed minor improvements, and my teacher points out my increasing fluidity between registers and the baseline of my singing cavity being higher. Whatever that means. Chris seems to know this with certainty. I have no choice but to trust the process, the way you trust that the airplane pilot knows what they're doing even when there's turbulence, and they're saying, don't worry, everything is fine.

Learning to sing is not only a case of mind over matter; things must transform inside your vocal cords and coordinate in new, unfamiliar ways.

There is no way to see whether you’re doing it right; only your ear will tell you.

Singing also relies on a complex network of brain regions and pathways that coordinate motor control, auditory processing, and cognitive functions. That's a lot, and these skills take time to develop. Knowing I can't do anything but practice and hope for progress is a lesson in humility.

I am happy with the notes I can sing, although I hope to be able to sing around other people without them reaching for earplugs or suddenly remembering urgent appointments across town.

Last year, I spoke with

Jessica de Koninck

, author of the poetry collection “Repairs” and “Cutting Room” on my podcast. Her advice to people trying to write poetry for the first time was wisdom handed down to her from a mentor: Lower your expectations.

This advice eases the pressure to achieve but is also confusing. I'm never sure when to shoot high, when get-er-done is good enough, or when to just do something every day, expecting little.

There are no clear lines between these three, but I'm learning the signposts.

Shoot for the stars and aim high—yes! You can and should explore all aspects of yourself with abandon. Whether running a marathon, writing a book or whatever your heart desires, ponder it seriously before saying you can't achieve it. The Mrs. Baders of the world were right: difficulty alone is no reason to avoid something meaningful. (I still maintain that calculus was unnecessary.)

Yet once you decide on a goal, remember that you don't have to be perfect. In fact, lower your expectations. Sometimes it's enough to have learned enough to be practically proficient. My language journey through the app "Duolingo" isn't fluency, but it connects me to new cultures in ways I'd never experience if I waited to enroll in a full-on course. I can now confidently ask for the check in three languages, which is really all you need.

The hardest lesson for me has been learning to be patient with my progress in acquiring new skills, especially in welcoming the inevitable sour notes. When my voice cracked "Peter Brady fashion" through an exercise, Chris praised me for not backing away from the sound. He referenced the Buddha's second arrow: we suffer once when we get hurt or when things don't go as planned, but we shoot ourselves again when we dwell on the event, react negatively, or ruminate on it.

The Buddha probably wasn't thinking about a 60+-year-old woman trying to hit high C, but the principle applies.

Perhaps true wisdom lies not in choosing between high expectations and "good enough" but in understanding when each serves us best—knowing when to push beyond comfort, celebrating progress no matter what form, and letting your voice sound as it does without beating on yourself.

Sometimes you need the audacity to push yourself to take the road less traveled because you want to. Other times, you need permission to order vichyssoise in mangled French and have the waiter understand you anyway. And occasionally, you must let your voice crack spectacularly in front of another human being and discover that the world doesn't end.

The sour notes are part of the symphony. The misses are part of the story.

So yes, shoot for the moon – but maybe pack some snacks for when you land among the stars, because perfection is overrated and space travel is exhausting. The real victory isn't in hitting every note perfectly; it's in skipping, or better, showing up late, every Thursday to Perfectionists Anonymous and admitting that your beautiful mess is actually enough.

It always was.

For my friends who like to click things, here is a funny song called “Lower Your Expectations” about men and women. It’s only 3:30 minutes. Enjoy!