Confessions of a Mediocre Figure Skater

It took me a long time to realize that I was a perfectionist. Ahem, I am a perfectionist. My resistance to the term itself should have been proof of my ailment. When therapists or friends would bring up the term trepidatiously—usually as I was in the middle of a meltdown over a minor mistake—I’d say, “But nothing I do is perfect—so how could I be a perfectionist?” 

Growing up, I was a figure skater. I was mediocre at best - gangly, skinny, and unable to hone my power like my advanced peers, who I so desperately wanted to be like. I loved skating but had a complicated relationship with the ice. During any given practice, I was one of a million skaters fighting for territory on the rink amongst other girls and their instructors. When I fell, when I fucked up, it was visible. And I fell and fucked up a lot. 

I remember getting home after practice, sitting on my bed, and staring out my bedroom window, wishing with every bone in my body that I could conjure up a big private rink to practice on alone. I thought that if I had the space and freedom to experiment by myself, I’d be an amazing skater. I was caught in a fantasy where the key to my success was complete and utter solitude - where I’d be unrestricted by the critical gaze of my coach or other skaters. 

In reality, the other skaters couldn’t give a shit about me. But at the ripe age of 12, I was already dripping with imposter syndrome + self consciousness, and I found the process of learning in public so excruciating. 

It killed me that I wasn’t a perfect skater. In other areas of my little life, I was excelling. Great grades, natural extrovert, super involved, on track for boarding school. Being mediocre in even one area of my life made me feel like a failure in all of them. 

This attitude followed me well into the adult world, along with a deep desire and tendency to find solitude any time I was figuring something out. For the longest time, being in process (learning on the job, writing a rough draft, getting over heartbreak, or even simple brainstorming) in front of others has always felt unbearable. I wanted people to see the finished version - I wanted to control the narrative. No wonder I grind my teeth. 

Of course, this was not sustainable - and about six months into my time at Google, I was forced to face this head-on. Basically, I went to a client meeting unprepared because I was confused about the context of the meeting and too scared to admit that to anyone on my team. I thought they’d finally realize they’d made a huge mistake hiring me, and that’d be it - out the door for little old me. 

When the clients asked for a piece of information that was pretty crucial for moving the project forward, I fumbled. I was horrified, and then humiliated when someone senior ripped into me afterwards in front of a bunch of peers. It wasn’t pretty, but their frustration was valid - and if I didn’t start speaking up, I really was going to be on my way out the door. 

Something had to change. I had to get more comfortable falling on the ice.

Around this time, I started therapy. Later on, I started career coaching. I explored why I felt such a strong need for control. Eventually, I started to recognize patterns and understand the behavior - and the pitfalls of the perfectionism I was so reluctant to embrace.

I realized that the biggest problem with perfectionism is that it’s completely ego-led. I was so focused on what I could control, do, or fix—or how I could make it seem like I had it all under control, even when I clearly didn’t—that I was missing out on so many beautiful opportunities for connection and support from my community.

It wasn’t until my mid-twenties that the concept of a creative process even came into my consciousness. I never thought about the beauty of being in progress, of figuring something out, of learning. I was so focused on arriving that I was missing the joy of learning itself. 

Listen, it’s not always pretty. Falling on the ice for all the world to see sucks. It has high cringe potential. But when you loosen your attachment to the outcome (and stop caring so much about how you look), that’s where the magic happens. 

The biggest lessons I’ve learned over my years of detaching from perfection: 

1. There’s enough for everyone. The other, better skaters around you are just proof of how much potential and talent is available in the world … instead of making them your competition, ask what you can learn from them. 

2. Asking for help is a beautiful thing. People want you to succeed. It might take you some time to find your people … but when you invite collaboration and wisdom from others into your life … deep, beautiful connection and progress becomes available. 

3. Maybe skating is just a fun outlet. I never became a great skater (I was decent. I can still throw some spins!!!), but I loved how my body felt on the ice. Now, I channel that into rollerblading and skateboarding, two things I actually am really good at. When you loosen the grip on the thing you’re set on being good at… you create space for other opportunities to present themselves. 

I’d still love a huge private skating rink all to myself. But now I know that the girls I was with on the ice would have loved to help show me a thing or two about my footwork on a spin if only I’d been courageous enough to get out of my own way and ask. 

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Also, here’s my fall moodboard. I make one every month and set it as the background on my computer. Check it out!

This might be the most 30-year-old DLMBT yet: COOL FLATWARE.