The Gentle Haven

For years, I thought I was just being responsible, driven, and capable. I didn’t realize that what I called “high standards” was actually perfectionism — and that it was slowly turning into resentment, exhaustion, and disconnection from myself.

My perfectionism eventually turned into resentment — not because anyone around me was doing something wrong, but because I wouldn’t allow myself to rest. I felt pressure to be the perfect daughter, to achieve something extraordinary despite becoming a young mother, to prove that I hadn’t wasted my life by getting pregnant before I had accomplished anything educationally or professionally.

At the same time, I believed I had to be the perfect mom. I couldn’t let my kids down. I couldn’t show them I was tired. I never wanted them to think, even for a moment, that I regretted them or that they were anything less than deeply wanted.

So I did too much — all the time. I never gave myself the space to slow down and ask what I actually wanted or what my priorities truly were. Instead, I kept pushing myself down a narrow, uphill, rocky path that I believed everyone expected of me — or maybe what I thought they expected.

I felt I had to be exceptional. To accomplish big things that were never demanded of my sisters. To make it look like motherhood was my calling and that I was naturally made for it.

And from the outside, it did look effortless. I was thriving in my career. My kids were on a strict routine. We had homemade meals every night. I managed the chores, the finances, and everything in between. Everything appeared flawless.

Except it wasn’t.

I was going to the doctor weekly. I had daily migraines. I was constantly exhausted. And still, the mask stayed firmly in place — even with my husband and my family.

Eventually, my body began speaking the words I wouldn’t let myself say. The migraines weren’t random. The exhaustion wasn’t laziness. The constant tension wasn’t just stress — it was grief for the parts of myself I had buried under expectation. I was surviving in a role I thought I had to earn, not living in a life I had chosen.

What hurt the most was realizing that no one had actually asked me to be perfect. Much of the pressure I felt lived inside me — shaped by comparison, fear, and a deep need to prove my worth. I mistook achievement for safety and productivity for value. Rest felt dangerous. Slowing down felt like failure.

I didn’t know how to exist without performing. Without excelling. Without proving that I deserved the life I had.

It took a long time to understand that resentment wasn’t coming from my family or my circumstances — it was coming from the way I abandoned myself to meet an invisible standard. I wasn’t angry at anyone else. I was grieving the permission I never gave myself to be human.

Learning to loosen that grip has been uncomfortable and humbling. I’ve had to redefine success, motherhood, and my own identity outside of perfection. I’ve had to practice letting things be unfinished, letting routines bend, letting others help, and letting myself be seen without the mask.

I’m still learning.

But now, when I feel resentment creeping in, I pause and ask what part of me needs care instead of control. Because perfection didn’t protect me — it nearly broke me. And gentleness, slowly and imperfectly, is teaching me how to live again