The slow days and unstructured hours reminded me how hurried the rest of my life often feels—and how seldom I actually let myself lose track of time.

EXPIRATION DATE

At thirty-three years old, I am just now developing a new baseline for wellness, a regular practice of rest, and a healthier, more compassionate awareness of my own limits. I’ll be honest: sometimes my nervous system still can't tell the difference between a deadline and imminent danger. While it’s true that I have an uncommon level of stamina, and that it has often worked to my advantage, I’ve also trained my body to endure extended periods of hyper-functioning and overextending. Not only because that way of living became normal for me, but because it has so often been praised, coveted, rewarded, and even assigned a certain measure of virtue: at work, at church, even by well-meaning family and friends.

I know how to execute under pressure. People can count on me to show up, hold things together, neutralize chaos, make up a deficit, and deliver in the end—with excellence, yes, but at what cost?

That way of living served a purpose, for a time. It helped a version of me that didn't yet have better tools or greater self-regard get by. But it has expired.

“Renewing my mind” isn't just a Christian cliché. Lately, it feels like my whole operating system has been due for an upgrade. This season has been full of opportunities to think differently, to respond differently, to give both my mind and body new memories to build around. God keeps inviting me into situations where I could once again choose to barter away my welfare in exchange for love, success, safety, or belonging—and I have refused every time. Somebody turn to your neighbor and say that’s growth. (I’m bunny-trailing now, so more on all this later!)

On my final morning in Florida, as I ate breakfast on the balcony overlooking the beach, I felt a familiar knot forming in my chest—threatening to unravel the very rest I had come there seeking. 

I began bracing myself for all the work waiting for me at home: the emails, the outstanding tasks, my personal goals for the year that I had all but abandoned. I can’t believe it’s already August. I need to lock back in. I really let myself go. I’m running out of time. Somehow, what began as a perfectly ordinary sadness that my vacation was almost over snowballed into a mid-year performance review with a performance improvement plan attached. 

ONE HIT WONDER

Over the last few months, my therapist has encouraged me to approach my weaknesses with more curiosity and compassion. Yesterday, when she asked me about this bend toward perfectionism—and how quickly I sometimes let my imagination and expectations run me off a cliff—I caught myself saying: 

“I just can’t afford to waste any more time.”

I’ve been sitting with that sentence ever since. Because beneath that statement—I can’t afford to waste any more time—I don’t just hear the usual suspects we associate with perfectionism: confidence (or lack thereof), competence, control. I hear something else. I hear disappointment. I hear grief. I hear regret. 

We often frame perfectionism as a symptom of insecurity. But I have been wondering if it is sometimes misdiagnosed. What if perfectionism is not only an attempt to overcompensate for some deep-seated inadequacy? What if perfectionism is also an attempt to manage scarcity, avoid grief, and outrun regret?

Often, when I’m overthinking or paralyzed by a decision, it’s not because I don’t believe I’m good enough or capable of doing the thing (although, to be clear, sometimes it is that too lol). 

It’s because I believe I have to get it right the first time. I’m not convinced I’ll get another chance.

THE MARGIN FOR ERROR

As a Black woman, “you have to be twice as good to get half as much” was offered to me as practical wisdom and armor for navigating a cruel and stingy world. Maybe it is useful. Many of us will learn at some point that the margin for error is thin. We will taste the bitter realization that even our best performance does not guarantee us the job, the relationship, the status, the peace. The unintended consequence of the adage is that, over time, I learned not only to question whether I was worthy of the things I desired. I also began believing that I didn’t even deserve the right—or the grace—to risk failing in pursuit of them.

When that lesson gets repeated often enough, of course you become hyper-vigilant. Of course you feel pressure to knock it out of the park the first time, and every time, when you are not banking on getting another chance. Mistakes are no longer merely inevitable; they are expensive.

If, as a child, your punishment consistently outweighed an honest mistake; if, at work, everything becomes a fire drill and your value rests on being the person who always saves the day; if, in love or friendship, things break before there is even a chance for repair—you begin to believe that mistakes are not merely embarrassing. They’re endings.

Now perfectionism and all her little cousins (overthinking, over-researching, and over-editing into oblivion) have disguised themselves as my personal loss prevention team. They promised they were keeping me safe, but they’ve been costing me exactly what they said my mistakes and recovery would: time. (I’m actually gagged!)

A MARGIN FOR GRACE

And if fear of loss has been feeding my perfectionism, perhaps the remedy has to begin with a different expectation. Maybe the antidote to perfectionism isn’t another affirmation or productivity hack. Maybe it’s a radical expectation that there will still be more: more life, more opportunity, more margin for grace.

Imagine constantly feeling like you’re down to your last chance, on your last strike, on somebody’s last nerve. But God is never down to His last anything. 

God is not rationing out blessings. Mercy isn’t a rainy day fund. You’re not overdrawing the portion He was saving for the day you might make an even bigger mess of things. You are not wasting His time—or yours, or anyone else’s—by being in need, by being at the beginning, by still being in process, by needing more time. 

Imagine how much more freely we might live if we learned to believe:

• I will have another opportunity.

• I deserve second chances.

• I have not yet met everyone who will love me.

• I will get better with practice and with time.

Then we begin to see that grace, rest, repair, experimentation, wrong turns and second chances–they are not wasted time. They are not detours from a meaningful life. They are part of one.

The grace of God has already accounted for our context, our starting point, our humanity. One mistake does not have the power to bankrupt our future. 

And that, to me, is astonishingly hopeful. 

If this moved you, leave me a comment below. I’ll read every single one. And if you’d like to keep the conversation going, you can always find me on Instagram and TikTok. Thanks for spending a little time with me here. 🤍