Publication Archive

Perfectionism and the Right to Rest

I used to say, “I’m a perfectionist,” with a mix of self-criticism and condescension — as if sacrificing my body and soul to meet deadlines was something to brag about.

There was a time when I would wake up at 5:00 am and complete a full ashtanga practice, read the Economist with a cup of coffee, and then go to the library to work on a thesis. I had this fully formed image of who I had to be to be successful: disciplined, smart, hardworking, driven. Pursuing this idealized version of myself kept me working my body to exhaustion day in and day out. I got so good at ignoring my body’s needs I hardly noticed when my period stopped coming, and I fooled myself into believing that the constant injuries were a sign of discipline (Must be doing something right).

Grind culture’s idea of success centers around constant overworking. Whenever we check that box, we get a surge of validation — starting with our inner judge that congratulates us for working hard—such a good girl.

Tricia Hersey recounts how we are socialized into becoming perfectionist agents of grind culture:

I would volunteer in my son’s third grade classroom weekly and notice the young children being told “hold your pee. Bathroom break isn’t for another twenty minutes.” I watched in horror as an eight year old squirmed, attempting to wait the twenty minutes until he could relieve himself. The teacher, obviously overwhelmed, continued to ignore his cues until he eventually used the bathroom on himself.

The disregard for children’s bodies and the unnecessary embarrassment we suffer in school are how we learn to ignore our body’s needs. Many people believe grind culture is this faceless thing directing our every move when in reality, we become grind culture by internalizing a mechanical standard of perfection.

Machine as Metaphor

The machine metaphor is everywhere.

Just today, I picked up a book by Rick Rubin and read this:

The universe functions like a clock (…) The artist is on a cosmic timetable, just like all of nature.

This quote is taken out of context, but still, you get the point right? The idea of nature being a cosmic timetable ticks me off. (ticks me off…Sofia, really?)

Humans love to build metaphors around the latest technology.

The invention of the first crude mechanical clock in the thirteenth century shaped Western thought in ways no one could have predicted. By the late twentieth century, watches evolved into measuring not just hours but minutes and seconds. At Bethlehem Steel Works in Pennsylvania, Frederick Taylor used a slide rule and stopwatch to determine how long each task should take to a fraction of a second.

Philosophers, anthropologists, and industrial designers concluded that the human body must also work like a clock. Like clockwork — our bodies were dissected into smaller and smaller units so that our movement (that unpredictable je-ne-sais-quoi that makes us more human) would reduce to the endless repetition of a single task. Easy. Predictable — just like the minutes in an hour. However, most of what gives life meaning comes from unpredictability, chaos, and serendipity—that which cannot be quantified or mass-produced.

All our technological utopias, and our dreams of machine-mediated immortality may fire our minds but they can never feed our bodies.

— David Abrams, Becoming Animal.

Perfectionism as Toxic Self-Worth (In praise of uselessness)

Perfectionism is a form of toxic self-worth — It asks you to compare yourself with the latest time-saving technology (I refuse to compete with Chat GTP).

It’s also a tell-tale sign that you may be suffering from capitalism.

Underlying your impeccable work ethic is a desire for validation in a culture that celebrates punctuality as a moral virtue and condemns laziness as a cardinal sin.

Perfectionism feeds on external validation; it ties our sense of worth to how much we can do for others at a given time. We’ll likely feel unworthy of being loved when our efforts fail to meet expectations.

The trance of unworthiness is cyclical. You work for validation, but you must always do more since you have not done enough. It will never be enough.

Productivity is a story about scarcity — making you believe that there is not enough of anything: not enough time, not enough love, not enough peace, not enough attention. Most importantly, it convinces us that we are not enough.

This is an attempt to illustrate the above.

Underneath its capitalistic guise, worth is about life’s impulse to keep living.

Life cherishes the continuation of life, and your body is the vehicle for that emergence. Being in constant dialogue with our bodies, asking them with all the kindness we can muster, “What do you need today? How can I make space for you to rest?” is vital to unlocking an alternative sense of worth — one that is innate and unquantifiable.

Unhinging our sense of worth from productivity means embodying somewhat fuzzier ideas, like the importance of non-verbal communication and the mere experience of life as the highest goal. It means celebrating a form of self that changes over time, expanding, meandering, and unraveling.

Old assumption: I am not enough. My worth hinges on my doing.

Reframe: I am abundant. My worth is my life’s impulse.

Shaping the Space for Refusal

I started practicing somatic movement a few months ago to de-mechanize the mental and physical patterns I took for granted.

Soma is engaging with your body as a process in constant change rather than an object. It’s tapping into your human animality—observing the nonverbal ways your body communicates with you.

This week my theme was sensing perfectionism — as it weighs heavy on my shoulders. It’s an acquired heaviness that comes with the feeling of having to be everything to everyone. Having to contort myself into whatever someone else wants me to be. Having to be on all the time. Being everything, everywhere, all at once (subtle pop culture nod).

In my practice, I asked the other person in the room to close their eyes, removing myself from that external gaze. I moved slowly. I drew a circle around myself, representing all of my needs. I stepped gently on the imagined contours, then circled out until the diameter grew larger and larger. This was the designated space for my needs, and I danced everywhere and all around it. By enlarging the area through movement — I allowed myself to express something critical — “I have needs, and they are many. Sometimes they won’t align with your needs. That’s okay.”

Through movement, I give myself permission to respect my needs and boundaries, embody abundance, and tell people I’m not available today.

Here’s a haiku that I wrote:

Please hold on my dear,
While I’m busy blooming,
Basking in the sun.

Blooming/resting your body is about holding open that place in the sun where serendipity occurs and perceiving life as more than an instrument.

Life cannot be optimized.

Accepting your softness is radical; it’s more important than ever. You are crafting a space for refusal where you will grieve. You will grieve the version of yourself that is deemed “productive” and “successful” by machine-like standards.

Productivity that produces what, though? Successful in what way and for whom?

Embodying resistance is to make oneself into a shape that a capitalist value system cannot so easily appropriate.

In How to Do Nothing, Jenny Odell retells a 4th-century Taoist story about a useless tree:

There was an old and crooked oak tree by the village shrine, every branch twisted and gnarled. Passing the old tree, Hui Tzu, a carpenter’s apprentice said to Shih, the master carpenter:

“What a useless tree that is. Its trunk and branches were so crooked, so distorted and full of knots. The wood is so beautiful, but it cannot be cut up.

Soon after the tree appears to him in a dream and asked “are you comparing me with those useful trees? If I had been of some use, would I ever have grown this large?”

The tree balks at the distinction between usefulness and worth made by a man who only sees trees as potential timber. Similarly, a new culture may emerge by tending a forest of useless trees — creating a restful space for resistance.

An Alternative Value Scheme

The creative space for refusal is threatened in a time of widespread economic precarity. Who can afford refusal is a matter of real concern. The question “how can I rest and pay the bills?” is evidence of the depth of the trauma endured at the hands of grind culture.

In the words of Tricia Herst, “I hear so many repeat the myth of rest being a privilege, and I understand this concept and still disagree with it. Rest is not a privilege because our bodies are still our own, no matter what the current system teaches us. I don’t belong to the systems. They cannot have me. We have a lifetime. We can go slow. We can go deep. We can go into the cracks.”

Let us tend to a garden of useless trees and watch them grow — maybe that is something worth living for

For me, this is a life impulse that makes sense— grounding ourselves deeply in community, anchored in care. I want to be surrounded by misfits, people deemed too weird, and non-compliant. A forest of gnarled trees that take the sun in when needed, drink water when needed, dance, play music, and go back to that place of deep rest, which always leaves the door half open. I want to live in a twisted forest so dense that it offers protection to all those who come to reclaim their right to contemplation.

This is my alternative take on success (for you to enjoy and hopefully add on to):

Living in natural time — I listen to my body’s natural rythm and I am attuned with the seasons. ie. Wintering — like nature, I rest when it is cold outside, this is a time to gather the strength needed to blossom come spring.

Embodying abundance — I am enough, I am abundant. This body is enough. ie. Humaning — the body as a process that takes its time, and which cannot be optimized — my instinct is my compass.

Love for another being — I ground myself in care and community. I voice my needs and trust that others will help me when needed. ie. Reciprocity — giving what you can give, and allowing yourself to recieve.

Maintance art — I maintain the seeds that I have already sown and will water this patch of land to watch them grow. Maintaining (instead of disrupting) is a life instinct.