Not perfect, but good enough

Helen Mulhern - 4 Jun 21

My quest for perfection has saw me placing impossible expectations upon myself which has left me feeling overwhelmed, exhausted and burnt out. I am intrigued why I have spent so much time and energy chasing the illusion of perfection that quite clearly like the tooth fairy doesn’t exist. A phrase that I’ve found myself adopting lately is ‘It’s not perfect, but it’s good enough’. With motivational mantras shoved down our necks to ‘live your best life’ it’s no wonder we find ourselves on the hamster wheel of life chasing perfection.  Whilst I appreciate the pinch of salt sentiment hidden within these slogans, it has on many occasions left me feeling less than. A failure. A loser. When I think of ‘living my best life’, I imagine myself in the Maldives, sat under a palm tree with cellulite free thighs and a stomach that doesn’t wobble when I laugh, James Norton massaging my feet. My reality is far less exciting but I have visited the Maldvies nether the less.

I’ve been grappling with the idea that perfection is achievable. The end goal. No matter how frustrating or exhausting the journey it’ll be worth it once I reach my destination. I will be complete. I will be ‘winning at life’. Accept I have never really been much of a winner, I’m more of 4^th or 5^th place kinda girl. The notion of attaining the perfect life has been drip fed to us by a combination of external factors- society, the media and our own desires to outdo the generation before us. A cleverly designed marketing tool to keep us wanting more, consuming more and generally believing we are not enough. What happens when you realise that the train on your journey does not stop at perfection station, you’ve boarded your carriage, but it keeps on picking up speed whizzing past the next best station. Gaining momentum, sparks spitting from the wheels, until eventually derailing from the tracks you are tossed out of the burning carriage-you will never reach this place so stop trying.

In a touch of a thumb print we can capture the sweet moments of parenthood in one carefully curated photo editing out the tantrums and unwashed dishes. We appear to be at the top of our game, juggling the preverbal balls, loading the dishwasher whilst practising our downward facing dogs. We multitask because we believe that this is the most efficient and productive way to function. We can have the cleanest, most Instagram worthy homes-if we stay up till midnight picking up every stray sequin off the floor on our hands and knees. Tiptoeing like a sniper across the landing hunting out discarded Barbie dolls and pieces of Lego. We keep on going, striving, burning ourselves out hoping to achieve equilibrium but there simply are not enough hours in the day to do everything perfectly. Before becoming a Mum, I had naïve notions of what kind of Mother I would be-patient, calm and I would iron their vests and arrange their little clothes into neat parcels within their draws. I would Mary Poppins the shit out of parenting. I quickly realised I was more Cruella than Mary. My patience was like a holiday romance, good while it lasted. Ironing became the bane of my life and I soon learnt that a quick shake of a t shirt was sufficient. My house and life will always be a little bit messy, there will always be jobs that never get ticked off my to do list.  My kids will always storm in and destroy all my hard work, tossing toys like grenades all over my freshly washed floors whilst I am screaming into my mop ‘What is the point’. There are no prizes for having the ‘best life’ or the cleanest windows. There is no coveted ‘Best Mum’ trophy that we are presented with upon our children turning 18 (although I do have a Best Mum mug which I treasure very dearly) If I am lucky my kids will turn out to be decent human beings.  My thighs will always wobble no matter how many squats I do.  My life won’t be perfect, but it will be good enough.

Helen Mulhern

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