Perfectionism comes up often in the therapy room; many clients have quietly said, almost apologetically — “I think I might be a bit of a perfectionist.” It’s often said with a smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes. And I get it. Our culture tends to applaud perfectionism. It looks like ambition, excellence, drive. But when I hear it, I usually hear something else too: a kind of emotional exhaustion just beneath the surface. A quiet ache to be enough.

From where I sit as a therapist, perfectionism isn’t just about high standards or doing things well. It’s often about protection. Somewhere along the way, many of us learned that being perfect was the safest way to exist in the world. Maybe we grew up in homes where love felt conditional — tied to performance, good behaviour, neatness, or praise. Or maybe criticism came quickly and affection slowly.

In those kinds of environments, the message seeps in early; you "need to be" inpressive, or at the least invisible, to be safe.

Perfectionism, in this sense, becomes a kind of emotional armour. A defence. A way of managing shame, fear, or the terror of not being wanted. It’s a strategy — and a clever one. I always want to honour that in the room. Because however painful perfectionism can be now, it probably served a really important function at some earlier point in life. I often hear a relentless internal voice in the perfectionists I work with — a voice that says they’re not quite doing enough, not quite getting it right, not quite worthy yet. It’s a hard voice to live with. And so the person spends a lot of their time trying to appease it, trying to keep it quiet by doing everything right. But it’s exhausting — like running a race where the finish line keeps moving.

I often think about how early relationships shape these patterns.

If maybe we were only praised or valued when we excelled in our early years, it makes sense that we’d learn to perform. That we’d start to believe our worth depends on what we do, not who we are. So later in life, even in relatively safe situations, part of us still fears rejection or shame if we drop the mask.

For many people, perfectionism is also about keeping certain parts of themselves hidden. The parts that feel too raw, too messy, too emotional, too uncertain. They try to show only the strong, capable, accomplished side — the version that gets approval. But that split can be painful. It can leave someone feeling unknown, even to themselves.

I’ve worked with people who appear to function brilliantly — who seem like they’re managing, even thriving — but who inside feel numb, disconnected, or deeply alone. It’s as if they’ve crafted a version of themselves that ticks all the boxes, but doesn’t quite feel real. Often, therapy is about gently making contact with the self underneath — the part that might not always get it right, but that’s alive, human, and worthy of love.

In the therapy room, we take our time. Perfectionism isn’t something we fix or get rid of. We start by getting curious about it. Where did it come from? What is it protecting you from? What are the fears underneath it? Often, perfectionism is covering up feelings that were once too overwhelming to feel — fear of failure, of being exposed, of not being chosen.

As we explore these things together, something begins to shift. Clients start to recognise the voice of their inner critic. They notice when they’re pushing themselves too hard, or when they’re holding their breath trying to get everything “right.” And they begin to try something new — allowing themselves to be “good enough.” Not perfect. Just human.

There’s something profoundly moving in watching someone soften — in seeing someone realise that they don’t have to earn love by being flawless. That they’re allowed to rest, to make mistakes, to be messy, and still be worthy.

For me, perfectionism isn’t a flaw. It’s a form of grief. A longing to have been loved without having to earn it. And when we see it that way, we can start to bring compassion to the parts of ourselves that worked so hard to stay safe. We don’t let go of perfectionism by pushing it away, but by understanding it — and making room for something gentler to grow in its place.