I have always been an extreme perfectionist. I recall organizing my Ann of Green Gables novels on my bookshelves with colored book ends when I was 10. I lined up my nail polish bottles from pearls to pastels to neons and I spent hours creating an organized enivronment. I was rewarded for color-coded client files at my place of work. I knew when someone had “borrowed” my work space because my stapler was next to the phone and not by my pen cup. I felt anxious, out-of-control, and physically overwhelmed when things slipped out of order. Things need to be neat, clean, tidy, organized, coordinated, and matching.

And now I still feel more pleasantly accomplished when my space is neat, clean, and organized. With a young family, a small townhome space, and crafting, my space isn’t any of the above. It was just this summer when I made the very difficult realization that my world isn’t going to be perfect and that I should not spend energy trying to command it’s fleeting perfection.

I truly feel anxious, tingly, angry, and slightly itchy when I survey a mess of toys on the floor, or clutter on flat spaces in my home. Letting go of my Martha Stewart perception of idealic perfect beauty, whether it be perfectly pressed linen napkins in seasonal napkin rings, or books organized by author’s last name, is still a daily struggle for me. Letting go of that control is like a feeling of separation from the life purpose you always knew. I used to believe my purpose was to control my surroundings. Now, I choose to believe my life’s purpose is to experience what life has to share with me.

Before children, organizing and maintaining control was easier. I planned the perfect matching nursery for my son–Peek-a-Pooh down to the color coordinated curtain rods, crib dust ruffle, and whicker baskets. I used to organize my closets by color, garment, and fiber, and fold all of the clothing in my drawers precisely.

White-out on my paper personal calendar binder, perfectly manicured nails, and a pressed suit gave me a sense of supreme satisfaction, and control was like a drug. I felt calm when everything was in it’s place. I felt useful when there was not a single speck of dust on the window sills. And I felt strong and in control.

Balancing a family and my perfectionism wasn’t working. My stress level was through the roof constantly worrying about preparing for the future instead of living in the present. I was perpetually burned out, depressed, looking for my next control indulgence.

I was super competitive; immediately comparing my production to that of others. Measuring myself so much actually made me a bit paranoid. I know I must have seemed insecure to others, and preachy. Sadly, I also know I pushed people away acting this way.

Blogging was also challenging and emotionally draining at first. Constantly comparing my stats to others, and wondering what I could post to one-up wasn’t really conducive to sharing my passions, thoughts, and feelings straight from the heart. I burned out, took a break, regrouped, and shifted the focus of Organizing-my-Life to a different direction. Feeling instead of doing, understanding and listening instead of controlling, and not stressing as much is where I am now…just creating joy for my family has really taken me in a different direction.

Some of the stress has evaporated, although learning to appreciating imperfect kids, who are learning and exploring their way through the world at knee-height, is still a bit stressful. Daily I am managing mini-panic attacks, anger and frustraition at things I can’t control. But I now cheer for others and simply appreciate their work. I also feel freer to pursue what inspires me, what takes my interest, and what makes me feel like creating something new. This perspective is still so new to me, and it amazes me that those who are imperfect seem to be leading perfect lives…as in, really living.