Perfectionism - Friend or Foe?

When I begin a painting, I’m already thinking about how it might sell as a print design. After all, it’s what I’ve been trained to do—and that should be a good thing, a reflection of my skills. But what often comes with that is a constant ticking-over in my brain every single time I put paint to paper. The message—though delivered in different ways—is generally: “Do better Lilly.”

Depending on how I’m feeling that day, this voice can be helpful, because it pushes me to keep improving. But it can also be a strain on my confidence—and when confidence is low, it’s hard to design well. Ideally, when we’re creating, we don’t want to feel like we’re being berated through the whole process by some aggressive HIIT trainer yelling across the room at us. Still, sometimes I wonder—where would I be without that voice telling me I’m not good enough?

I was recently listening to The Imperfects podcast, where they talked about how perfectionism is often formed as a survival mechanism in childhood. That really illuminated a lot for me—particularly how not disappointing people was a big part of how I “survived” growing up. Don't worry, we won’t be unpacking that here, but it got me wondering how this trait has followed me into adulthood, whether I want it or not—and whether I’ll ever be able to let it go.

Perfectionism, my old nemesis—can I survive without you?

Early on in my years working in print studios, I remember really struggling with feedback. Sure, the delivery wasn’t always ideal—but mostly, I just hadn’t learned yet that criticism is how we grow. You can’t create for an industry in a vacuum, and you certainly can’t improve without input on how to do so. I genuinely remember thinking, “What does she know about what looks good? I think it’s great.”

Well—it turns out she did know. It was, after all what her entire career was built on. And when I finally started to acknowledge that, I actually began to develop as a designer.

This was also around the time when I thought my career might take off overnight. There was something about Instagram’s heyday and the idea of “going viral,” mixed with that millennial self-entitlement (which I’m a little ashamed to admit) made me believe I just needed to be “discovered.” Being told to change my self proclaimed "perfect" designs into something I didn’t like—for a crappy wage—felt like the biggest injustice. It left me disillusioned with the whole industry far too early on, and in my big-headed confusion I started looking into different careers.

Honestly, I’m not sure when the shift happened, but eventually, my ego simmered down, and I stopped reacting emotionally. Feedback wasn’t a direct attack on my worth. Criticism became a tool for growth. Once I chose not to exit the industry in a childish reaction to its harshness, I began to understand what it means to master something over time—and the deep satisfaction that comes with that.

These days, as a freelancer, my creative director has been replaced by my own thoughts. I can’t say I love it— it really just never pipes down—but there’s no way around it. Without that internal pressure, I might be creating rubbish—or worse, nothing at all. And that just wouldn’t do.

I’ve never really had strong skills in anything else, so all my eggs are in this basket—and I need to keep that basket full. A big part of that is maintaining a high standard of work (or trying to), especially when building collections or updating my portfolio. But that standard never seems to have a ceiling. It’s never quite good enough.

I look at the work of people like Sabina Savage and Sarah Gordon and feel both awe and urgency—a reminder of how much further I still want to go. Granted, once I get there my idea of what creative success looks like will be entirely different and so will continue the cycle.

Will I ever feel fully satisfied? Likely not. But maybe that’s the point.

Maybe the satisfaction lies in the small increments of improvement. That’s what life feels like anyway: incremental growth. And honestly, sometimes I don’t think there’s much of a distinction between life and creating. Not to be dramatic, but for me, I don’t think I could survive without it. Painting, drawing, designing all feel like part of my basic functioning—not so different from sleeping or eating.

So, like that slightly annoying Ralph Waldo Emerson quote we hear too often, I think I'm going to focus on enjoying the journey of mastery, knowing full well that the destination I envision will never actually be reached. Because it probably doesn’t exist. But I’ll keep reaching toward the idea of it anyway.

I wonder if there are others out there who have given this much thought to their complicated relationship with perfectionism. If so, I wonder if you have any reflections to share.