I have always been a procrastinator. 

I think it started in high school. I have very clear memories of sitting in front of the desktop computer in my bedroom, well past midnight, hoping someone else would sign onto AIM so I could further avoid writing my extended essay and lab reports.

Even now, I am writing this blog post because I don’t feel ready to send my weekly volunteer team e-mails. 

I always procrastinate on these e-mails, and I’m not sure why. It is not particularly hard to write them: give some encouragement, share the week’s schedule, attach the curriculum, restate the vision. Still, I let my perfectionism get the best of me, and if I can’t think of the most perfect thing to say, I wait. Wednesday is the deadline to send those e-mails.

As you can imagine, I’m often hitting “send” at 5:00 p.m. on Wednesday.

It’s currently 10:00 a.m. on Thursday. I haven’t sent them.

My perfectionism is tied to my procrastination, and visa versa. They feed on one another, in the worst kind of symbiotic relationship.

I’ve been trying to combat this for years now, but even more so this year as I try to embrace freedom (freedom from perfectionism being the biggest issue). 

Done is better than perfect.

Done is better than perfect.

Done is better than perfect.

Over and over again I chant that mantra, trying to convince myself it’s true. 

There’s this library book that I returned this morning on my way home. It was overdue. WAY overdue. I am embarrassed to admit just how overdue it was. Originally, it was in my work bag and I simply kept forgetting to return it. I would take the wrong route home, or be running late, and I just forgot. 

As time went on and late fees accrued, I began to feel guilty that the book was so late. I was almost embarrassed to return it.

I know. Even as I type it out, my inner monologue says, “But who actually CARES? Why be embarrassed in front of the librarian, for goodness sake?” But it’s true. I messed up, and when I make a mistake, the perfectionist in me often wants to ignore the situation completely. Somehow, to pretend the issue does not exist seems a better alternative to admitting failure (even if only to myself).

It’s strange. And the fact that this manifested itself in the form of a massive late fee is just ridiculous. But true. I haven’t got it quite figured out, but I somehow feel that this library book is tied to my obsessive perfectionist tendencies.


I’m going to hit that blue “publish” button right now, and then I’m going to back to Gmail to hit “send.”

Done is better than perfect.

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