I always wanted to be perfect, believing that perfection would keep me safe. Imperfect behavior or appearance could stir anger, invite humiliation, or provoke laughter—whether at school or at home. I thought that by being better, smarter, and prettier, I could shield myself from criticism, becoming untouchable.

When criticism becomes unbearable it usually stems from a fixed mindset, a belief that who we are is static, unchangeable. This mindset makes growth impossible and renders criticism intolerable, as if someone is denying our right to exist. To make mistakes, to carry extra weight, to feel self-doubt or inexperience—these things seem like attacks on our identity. When we view ourselves as unchanging, we hide. We conceal our imperfections, creating new personas rather than nurturing the one within.

Perfectionism is a form of neurosis. It often grows from a childhood deprived of love and acceptance, leading us to lose touch with our true selves. We strive to be more than we are, willing to sacrifice our nature, our values, our character. In trying to please others, we lose ourselves. And often, we not only lose ourselves—we forget who we were entirely.

There was a time in my life when I was trying to be the ideal disciple of my spiritual teacher. I became a vegetarian, avoiding stimulating foods like onions, garlic, tea, and coffee. I remember standing in the grocery store, no longer listening to my body’s needs, no longer choosing what I desired. Instead, I spent long moments reading labels, searching for what I was “allowed” to eat. In choosing what was right instead of what I truly wanted, I began to betray myself. Years passed with this pious diet, and eventually, I could no longer recognize my own feelings, needs, or desires.

In the pursuit of perfection, we often lose touch with our bodies and, consequently, with reality. Without this vital connection, we lack the grounding, strength, and clarity needed to bring our ideas into the world as we must be embodied, rooted in matter, to create and make a lasting impact.

That is exactly what happened to me. As a compulsive perfectionist, it’s no surprise that I didn’t create much. I spent my time doubting myself, criticizing and judging others or offering them unsolicited advice. In my quest for flawlessness, I became dull, fearful, isolated and alone. Worse still, I drifted further from my values and the person I longed to be. 

This obsessive drive for perfection built tension not only in my character but in my body as well. But simply “relaxing” wasn’t the answer.

Through meditation and self-reflection, I came to see that my pursuit of perfection was rooted in something noble. At its heart, it was an expression of my commitment to growth and self-discovery. To abandon it would have been a betrayal of my core values. I realized the answer wasn’t to fight perfectionism but to transform it.

One of the methods that helped me was called Focusing. When my inner critic grew particularly loud, I learned to pinpoint where in my body that energy arose. Instead of fighting it, I simply observed it, listened to it, and acknowledged its right to exist. In doing so, its voice gradually weakened. By becoming its OBSERVER, I no longer identified with it. I became larger than my inner critic. The key was not to fix or silence this voice but to allow it space, while remaining rooted in the observer’s perspective. There’s a term—”loving presence”—and it fits perfectly here.

As the mind’s turbulence subsided, I began to notice another part of me—quieter, more vulnerable—a part that feared failure and mistakes. I recognized my younger self in it. Instead of comforting or encouraging it, I simply offered my loving presence: “I see why you’re scared. It must have been so painful to be criticized while doing your best, learning new things. I understand you.” And in that moment, I grew larger than my fear of failure.

Through this practice, I realized that my judging voice was only trying to protect me from reliving old pain. Its drive for perfection was an attempt to shield my vulnerable self from getting hurt again. This understanding allowed me to see that every part of me played a vital role, each trying its best in its own way. By stepping into the observer’s role, I could finally act from a place of strength, courage, and trust—no longer driven by fear or past wounds.

Accepting my inner parts also taught me a profound skill: observing without judgment. This shift rippled through my life and relationships, as I stopped judging others too. I noticed a leap in my ability to remain calm, present, and aware. My spiritual growth accelerated. The longer I stayed in the observer state, the deeper I connected with my spiritual self—the source of my being and the source of everything.

 The purpose of individual evolution is not to achieve some ideal state and become flawless, but to recognize our wholeness in the present moment and our oneness with everything that exists. Love for oneself doesn’t emerge from specific traits like beauty or intellect. It comes naturally when we realize that nothing exists beyond us. We are everything—complete with our contradictions, our strengths, and our vulnerabilities.

As I was spending time with this thought, my perception of myself began to shift. My heart gradually opened, allowing me to embrace not just my own so-called imperfections but the world’s as well. I saw that when I judged myself harshly, I noticed those same flaws reflected in others. But as I learned to accept myself, I no longer saw those imperfections as wrong. They simply were—neither sinful nor undesirable—just a part of the whole.

Everything within us has a purpose. Even the most challenging aspects protect, support, or create space for healing. They lay the groundwork for our growth.

The same applies to the world around us. Everything is in its rightful place, serving evolution. At its core, everything is love.

Everything is love. When we fully grasp this truth, loving oneself becomes inevitable. We could no longer deny our inherent perfection. Every habit and reaction—even the ones we deemed negative—was the best we could manage with our current awareness, resources, and beliefs. 

You are the best version of yourself right now. Every choice, habit, and intention has brought you to this moment. While you may see room for growth, that wisdom comes from the imperfections you’ve lived through. So, were those past choices really as flawed as they seemed?

True wisdom arises when we see the perfection in everything around us. When we view everything—both within and around us—as perfect, we shift from criticism to exploration. We seek deeper meanings, hidden connections, and underlying patterns. Instead of judging, we study ourselves and the world.

We learn from the world, not by fighting it, but by embracing it. We grow not by battling ourselves, but by accepting who we are. Self-improvement transforms into self-nurturing. Instead of chasing flaws and trying to correct them, we could ask, “What part of my life needs more care? Which actions or skills would be the most loving expression toward oneself?”

When I speak to myself this way, my nervous system softens. A gentle sense of self-love replaces the endless drive for perfection. As I relax, I realize that true perfection isn’t about flawlessness—it’s about recognizing our divine essence. We are particles of the Absolute, of universal love—whatever you choose to call it. By seeing ourselves as part of the whole, we understand that all qualities already exist within us. The Absolute, which we reflect, holds every trait, every expression, every possibility. Within us resides this same completeness—both light and shadow, abundance and humility—perfect in its unity.

I once defined myself by fixed traits: ‘I am an introvert. I am peaceful. I am smart.’ While these may be true, they are only part of the picture. I also embody their opposites: I can be silly, impatient, social, expressive, and spontaneous.

Take a moment to reflect on the opposing qualities within yourself. You might be obedient and rebellious, lazy and driven, outgoing and shy—all at once. As you explore these contradictions, you’ll begin to see that they are simply colors of the mind, painting the canvas of your experience. These patterns can be learned and unlearned, but the light that shines through them is unchanging. Beyond your habits, perceptions, and beliefs lies your true self—unlimited, eternal, untouched by the mind’s dualities. In that essence, you are whole. You are perfect.