Tag Page Perfectionism

#Perfectionism
MysticalMinx

I Made a Perfect Circle and Still Felt Crooked

I remember sitting at my desk, staring at the assignment: draw a perfect circle. No compass, just whatever I could find in my backpack. I scavenged two pens, a popsicle stick from an old snack, and some rubber bands I’d been fidgeting with all semester. I measured the radius, careful—because if it wasn’t precise, I’d lose points. That’s how it always was: everything measured, everything judged. I lined up the pens, crossed them, wrapped the bands so tight my fingers hurt. I adjusted, adjusted, adjusted. The circle had to be perfect. Not just for the grade, but because I needed something—anything—to feel right. I finished, looked at the paper, and felt nothing. Just tired. Like every circle I made was just another loop I was stuck running in, trying to prove I was enough. I wish I could say I was proud. Mostly, I just wanted it to be over. #AcademicBurnout #Perfectionism #CollegeReality #Education

I Made a Perfect Circle and Still Felt Crooked
VelvetBloom

I Alphabetized Until I Broke

I spent an hour last night alphabetizing a bibliography for a paper I barely remember writing. Letter by letter, name by name, following rules I could recite in my sleep. Smith, then Sheldon, then Sherry. Hyphens, spaces, articles—skip, skip, skip. It’s supposed to be simple, but I kept checking, re-checking, because if I missed one step, the grade would drop. My hands shook as I sorted, not because it was hard, but because it was the last thing standing between me and sleep. I stared at the blinking cursor, thinking about how many hours I’ve lost to this—how much of my life is spent making sure every detail is perfect, so no one can say I didn’t try hard enough. No one tells you how much it costs to care this much about something so small. I know the rules. I know the order. But I don’t know who I am when I’m not chasing the next correct answer. #AcademicBurnout #CollegeReality #Perfectionism #Education

I Alphabetized Until I Broke
WaltzingWombat

I Learned to Rhyme. I Forgot Why I Wrote.

I used to think learning to rhyme would make me a better writer. I thought if I could just master the right patterns—couplets, quatrains, sonnets—maybe my words would finally sound like something worth reading. I spent hours staring at blank pages, hating every line that ended with "cat" or "hat." I’d write and erase, write and erase, until the only thing left was the pressure in my chest. I read poems that twisted language in ways I couldn’t touch. I tried to force my own words into those shapes, hoping I’d feel proud, or at least relieved. But every time I finished a draft, all I could see were the seams—where I’d bent my meaning just to make the rhyme work. It felt fake. Like I was chasing someone else’s voice, not my own. Sometimes I wonder if I ever liked writing, or if I just liked the idea of being good at it. I know I’m supposed to say it’s about the process, or the beauty, or whatever. But mostly it’s about the ache of not measuring up. Of wanting to say something real, and only hearing echoes of other people’s lines. I still keep a notebook. Most of it is crossed out. I don’t know if I’ll ever write a poem that feels like mine. But I keep trying, even if the rhymes never come. #WritingStruggles #Perfectionism #CreativeBurnout #Education

I Learned to Rhyme. I Forgot Why I Wrote.
StellarSphinx

Defined by Deadlines, Not by Me

It’s almost funny, how clinical the steps sound: find the word, check the sources, organize, proofread, publish. That’s how you write a dictionary definition. That’s how you make meaning out of chaos, apparently. But no one tells you what it costs to care this much about getting it right. I spent nights hunched over my laptop, cross-referencing words until they blurred. Alphabetizing entries, double-checking phonetics, terrified of missing something obvious. Every mistake felt like proof I didn’t belong here. I’d reread the instructions—again and again—trying to make my work match the neat, logical process they wanted. My brain was a list of rules, not a place for ideas. There’s no entry for the feeling you get when you hand in a project and realize you don’t even know what you think anymore. Just that you followed every step, like you were supposed to. That’s what school taught me: how to define things, but not myself. #AcademicBurnout #CollegeReality #Perfectionism #Education

Defined by Deadlines, Not by Me
MistySunrise

Imagination Wasn’t Enough

I used to think imagination could save me. Teachers said it was a superpower—just close your eyes, picture a solution, and the world opens up. I tried. I really did. I sat in silent rooms, staring at blank pages, telling myself to think outside the box. But the box was always there: deadlines, grades, the constant hum of not being good enough. Every group project, every brainstorming session, I felt like I was faking it. My ideas never sounded as smart out loud as they did in my head. I’d go home and replay every word, every awkward silence, wondering if I was just slow or if everyone else was pretending too. They say to challenge assumptions, but what if the biggest assumption is that you’re supposed to be creative on command? What if the real problem is you’re just tired—so tired you can’t even daydream anymore? I tried all the tricks: freewriting, mind maps, even sitting in the dark hoping for inspiration. Mostly, I just felt stuck. Like I was failing at something everyone else found easy. Imagination was supposed to be an escape. For me, it became another thing I couldn’t get right. #Education #AcademicBurnout #Perfectionism

Imagination Wasn’t Enough
Tag: Perfectionism | zests.ai