Recently, I shared how I discovered that many of my relationship patterns were rooted in a fear of abandonment. What looked like contradictory behaviors—clinging too tightly in some relationships and wanting to run from others—turned out to be different responses to the same fear.
If you haven’t read that story yet, you can find it here:
→ Different Birds From the Same Nest
That discovery gave me something I had never had before.
A map.
For years, I spent my energy trying to change behaviors without understanding where they came from. Once I understood the root, everything started making more sense.
A few weeks later, Robert unexpectedly asked me a question that made me wonder if the same process might apply to him.
We have a major backyard renovation underway right now. Contractors, concrete, pool liners, schedules, budgets—the whole thing.
If you’ve ever met my husband, you already know this is exactly the kind of project that activates every anxiety circuit he has.
One day he asked me:
“Do you think some people are just more bothered by imperfection than others?”
I told him yes.
Then he asked:
“Do you think it’s okay that things bother me when they aren’t perfect?”
I told him that I thought it depended on how much it affected his life.
If noticing imperfections helps you catch problems before they become disasters, that’s a gift.
If it keeps you from enjoying your life, that’s a different conversation.
Then I told him about my own discovery.
For years, I thought my tendency to emotionally check out, pull away, or occasionally feel like running from my marriage had something to do with what my marriage lacked.
I thought maybe I needed more reassurance.
More connection.
More attention.
But after years of counseling, reading, and self-reflection, I discovered something uncomfortable.
The fear wasn’t really about Robert.
It was older than Robert.
When I finally understood my fear of abandonment, so many things started making sense.
So I told him something simple.
“I don’t think I can tell you why you’re a perfectionist. But I wonder if there’s a reason.”
Because once you discover that your own behaviors have roots, you start looking at struggles differently.
Instead of being judgmental, you start wondering why.
The truth is, I don’t think Robert’s standards are the problem.
Some of the things I admire most about him come from those standards.
This is a man who was captain of the football team.
Captain of the soccer team, despite not even liking soccer.
A 4.0 engineering student.
An engineer.
A leader.
A problem solver.
A person who has spent most of his life setting goals and reaching them.
High standards have served him well.
But as we talked, I realized something.
I don’t think perfection becomes a problem when it pushes us to do our best.
I think perfection becomes a problem when it keeps us from taking the next step because we haven’t already reached the finish line.
I told Robert that I know he values his faith.
How do I know?
Because I’ve watched him live it.
I’ve seen him read his Bible.
I’ve seen him turn to Scripture for comfort.
I’ve watched him cling to God during seasons when life felt impossible.
I’ve found Bible verses scribbled on pieces of paper.
I’ve watched him seek God when nobody else was looking.
So when he tells me he doesn’t like where his spiritual life is, I believe him.
But I also told him something I’ve noticed.
Sometimes when we miss church, he feels like he’s failing spiritually.
And yet from Monday through Saturday there are dozens of opportunities to nurture that relationship.
A devotional on the way to work.
Five minutes in Scripture.
A prayer during lunch.
Listening to the Bible while driving.
Small things.
Micro wins.
But it seems like sometimes those opportunities get overshadowed by the feeling that he isn’t where he wants to be.
And then I realized I’ve done the exact same thing.
One week we missed church.
A few days later, I found myself emotionally depleted and desperately needing comfort.
I knew exactly what I needed.
I needed God.
I needed my Bible.
But when I reached for it, I felt resistance.
Not because I didn’t want God.
Because I didn’t want the guilt.
Somehow, I had convinced myself that because I missed church on Sunday, opening my Bible on Tuesday wouldn’t matter.
As if five minutes with God couldn’t possibly count because I had already missed the bigger goal.
But eventually I had to remind myself that I don’t think God only wants to hear from us on mountaintops.
I think He wants to hear from us in valleys too.
Maybe especially in valleys.
So I opened my Bible anyway.
And I found exactly what I needed.
Not condemnation.
Comfort.
That’s when I realized that shame has a way of moving into spaces where growth was supposed to live.
And the more I thought about it, the more I realized I see this pattern in other areas of Robert’s life too.
Sometimes with finances.
Sometimes with projects.
Sometimes with goals.
Sometimes with risks.
If he thinks something might fail, he often doesn’t want to start.
He’ll even tell me that I push him toward things he doesn’t feel qualified to do.
Yet many of the things he says he isn’t qualified for are things I genuinely believe he could accomplish.
That’s what made me wonder if perfectionism isn’t really the issue.
Maybe the issue is a fear of failure mixed with a very high standard of achievement.
And that combination can be dangerous.
Because it can create anxiety.
It can create avoidance.
It can even create complacency.
Not because you don’t care.
But because you care so much that failing feels unbearable.
The more we talked, the more I realized this wasn’t really about church.
Or finances.
Or projects.
Those were just examples.
The deeper question was this:
Why does the standard matter so much?
Who are you trying to impress?
And does that audience even exist anymore?
That’s when I told Robert something I’ve wanted him to understand for years.
I reminded him of something I told him when I was struggling with postpartum depression.
I asked him if he remembered me telling him that sometimes the simple sound of him walking through the door made me feel better.
He said yes.
I told him that’s still true.
That’s all I’ve ever really needed from him.
His presence.
His heart.
His willingness to show up.
Emotionally.
Physically.
Consistently.
He’s already won my approval.
The kids feel the same way.
For years I’ve watched them run to the door yelling:
“Daddy! Daddy!”
They weren’t running because he had a perfect GPA.
They weren’t running because he was captain of anything.
They weren’t running because of a promotion, a savings account, or a completed project.
They were running because he was their dad.
Which made me wonder if the measuring stick he’s using belongs to the people sitting around his table.
Because I don’t think he’s achieving for me.
And I don’t think he’s achieving for our children.
So maybe the better question isn’t whether the standard is too high.
Maybe the better question is:
Who set the standard?
And does it still serve the life you’re trying to build today?
Because sometimes the very thing that helped us succeed becomes the thing that keeps us from enjoying the success we’ve already achieved.
Understanding the root changed my life.
Not because it excused my behavior.
But because it gave me a map.
And maybe that’s where growth starts.
Not by judging the behavior.
But by becoming curious about the story behind it.
So I told Robert that I think instead of worrying about whether his perfectionism is okay, I would be more interested in understanding where it comes from.
I was actually hesitant to offer too many answers because I think some discoveries are more meaningful when we make them ourselves.
Books helped me.
Counseling helped me.
Self-reflection helped me.
But nobody could simply hand me the answer.
I had to discover it.
So my best advice to him was simple.
I think somewhere along the way achievement became associated with something important.
Maybe it was approval.
Maybe it was security.
Maybe it was identity.
Maybe it was proving something.
Maybe it was all of those things.
I don’t know.
But I suspect there was a reason that achievement became so valuable.
The question isn’t whether that reason was right or wrong.
The question is whether it still matters.
Because what I learned through my own journey is that sometimes we keep carrying lessons long after we’ve outgrown the circumstances that created them.
For years, I lived as though abandonment carried the same threat it did when I was a child.
It didn’t.
The fear was real.
The lesson was outdated.
Maybe achievement works the same way.
Maybe the meaning it once held isn’t the meaning it holds today.
Maybe the standard that once helped build a life becomes the standard that keeps us from enjoying it.
And maybe growth isn’t always about becoming someone new.
Maybe sometimes it’s about examining the beliefs we’ve carried for years and deciding whether they still belong in the life we’re living now.
Because once I understood where my fear came from, it lost some of its power over me.
And I wonder if the same thing might happen when we understand why we feel such a strong need to achieve.
Not because achievement is bad.
But because understanding the root gives us a choice.
And choice is where freedom begins.
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