My Battle with Perfectionism / Am I Forgiven?

When I was barely more than a decade old, I came across a passage from President Spencer W. Kimball that pierced my soul. In an instant, my perspective shifted from carefree childhood to sober awareness. I couldn’t ignore the gentle but insistent whisper anymore: “You can behave better than this.”

It wasn’t that I was particularly bad, but I had quietly adopted the idea that I’d be serious about righteousness later—when I was older, a Relief Society regular. That’s what you do, right? Be a kid, do kid things, grow up when you're grown.

But those few prophetic words pulled the rug out from under that illusion. Suddenly, I was acutely aware of how unprepared I was to return to my Heavenly Father. I felt cut off from His Spirit. If I were to die that day, I knew I wouldn’t be ready. The thought chilled me to my core.

I was flooded with guilt and sorrow. Like Alma the Younger, I felt “racked with eternal torment” and “harrowed up to the greatest degree.” (Alma 36:12-13) I remembered my sins, even the smallest ones, and felt unworthy and alone.

Even at eleven, I felt the full weight of spiritual abandonment. And yet, I carried on with school and life, all while my soul groaned under the strain. I examined my life and began reaching out to those I may have wronged. I wrote an apology to a childhood playmate I had offended years earlier.

I abhorred anything that dealt inappropriately with procreation and vowed to remain clean and pure, no matter what my friends did. (That’s an easy promise to make when you’re eleven and think boys are idiots; still, I learned that commitments made long before they’re hard to make prove to be effective when situations later become more challenging.)

I did everything I could think of to restore my inner peace. Now, more than anything in the world I wanted to know that my Heavenly Father forgave me for all my mistakes, no matter the size. Without His forgiveness, I knew I could never live with Him again, and the thought of that was more than I could bear. He was my Father!

But peace didn’t come. Even after talking with my branch president—and learning that no disciplinary action was needed—I still felt empty.

Time passed, and light slowly returned. But the question never left me: What if I haven't done enough? I lived in constant vigilance, trying to be perfect. For the next seventeen years, I did everything I could to avoid repeating that feeling of torment.

With the memory of my wretched torment still vivid, I lived each moment so as not to ever have to feel it again. Emptiness is one thing, but agony and torment was an entirely different experience, one which I would avoid at all costs. So, for the next seventeen years I tried to be absolutely perfect. If I messed up, I immediately did all I could to make it right. It became my obsession, to live a perfect life. I couldn’t walk my high school campus and pass litter without picking it up, because passing it by would not have been the perfect thing to do. 

I found myself compulsively apologizing to people for unkind thoughts I had had toward them, even if they hadn't been aware. One day when I was babysitting, the young boy I watched began to spray me with a garden hose so I kinked it and heard one of the threads snap. The damage was invisible and had no negative effect on it, but still I couldn’t rest until I called the parents to apologize for snapping a fiber in their garden hose. After all, what if I were to be called Home before making things right? The thought terrified me, to live with that kind of torment for all eternity. I couldn't even handle the few days with the horror I had experienced.

In time, I decided it was easier to avoid mistakes altogether. I tried to live so perfectly that I wouldn't need to repent. But the adversary twisted my good intentions into burdening lies. I started believing that others’ mistakes might be my fault if I didn't intervene. I even hid someone’s cigarettes once, thinking I was helping.

Even with this skewed mindset, I did the best I could. And I felt a deep connection with my Heavenly Father. I was happy. I thought I had life figured out.

Then I got married and had children.

Suddenly, perfection was no longer possible. My time, energy, and emotional reserves were spread thin. I couldn’t do it all anymore. I tried to study scriptures and nurture my spirit, but I resented the constant interruptions. My tidy life felt upended.

Finances were tight. We worked multiple jobs to stay afloat. I struggled with guilt—breaking one commandment to keep another. My perfectionism crumbled.

Pregnancy triggered depression. I raged. I swore. I felt guilty. My husband stayed, though it wasn't easy. I knew it was hormonal, but it didn't ease the shame.

Suicide crossed my mind, but I knew it wouldn’t solve anything. I kept doing all the "right" things, but with depression, the spiritual reward was absent. I felt stuck.

At twenty-eight, I broke. I gave up the lists, the pressure, the expectations. I approached God with nothing left to give.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I told Him. “I can’t be who I’m supposed to be.” I promised only to pray morning and night for two weeks—nothing more.

I expected disappointment. But instead, I felt Heaven smile.

It shocked me.

God was delighted. I felt His joy. His love. His mirth. For me. It was unmistakable.

In that moment, I realized: He wasn’t disappointed in me. He was relieved. “Finally,” He seemed to say, “you recognize your dependence on Me. Now I can work with you.”

It wasn’t shame. It wasn’t punishment. It was love. Real love.

So that’s what it means to come with a broken heart and contrite spirit. So that’s what it feels like to be embraced by grace.

Before, my repentance had been soaked in shame. I punished myself. I spiraled. But shame is not surrender. True surrender is quiet. Empty. Open.

Since that day, I've grown stronger—but now I know where that strength comes from. If I get out of bed, it’s because of Him. If I accomplish anything good, it’s because He works through me.

I can’t perfect myself. I was never expected to. That’s why He sent a Savior. So that in my weakness, I could be made whole.

When I offer my brokenness, He shows me what to do next—and gives me the strength to do it.

I’ll never forget the day I came to Him defeated, and He smiled.

With a Father like that, I believe I’ll make it. Eventually.

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(2 Corinthians 12:9) And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.  Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.

Originally written in 2009

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