Enough of Being Perfect: A Life Unfiltered

“You forgot to order the gluten-free bread again, Em. My mom can’t eat regular bread, you know that.” The knife in my hand trembled ever so slightly, a bead of sweat forming at my hairline. The Chicago skyline blinked at me through the kitchen window, indifferent to the volcano erupting in my chest.

“I’m sorry, Matt. I just—work was insane, and I didn’t—”

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “It’s always something with you lately.”

His words landed like pebbles, but each one left a bruise. I turned away, pretending to check the oven, blinking back tears. No one could see me cry. Not at work, not at home—especially not at home.

I am Emily Carter, 27, marketing specialist at a top Chicago firm. My LinkedIn profile boasts awards, promotions, and volunteer work. My Instagram is littered with brunches, sunsets, and my husband Matt’s infectious smile. People say we are #CoupleGoals. But if you peeled back just one layer, you’d see the cracks spiderwebbing beneath: the panic attacks, the endless lists, the exhaustion of being the perfect wife, daughter, employee, friend.

It wasn’t always this way. I grew up in a small town in Indiana, the oldest of three. My mom demanded excellence—”If you’re not first, you’re last,” she liked to say, half-joking. I learned to tie my worth to gold stars and glowing report cards. My dad adored me, but he worked two jobs and was only home on Sundays. I was the good girl, the fixer, the one who held it all together.

When I landed the job in Chicago, my mom wept with pride. “You did it, Em. You made it out.” Matt and I met at a friend’s party—he was funny, smart, and loved my ambition. We married after two years. Matt’s mom, Linda, moved to the city last year, and suddenly family dinners became weekly performances. She’d scrutinize my roast chicken, comment on the state of our apartment. “Emily, dear, you look tired. Are you sure you’re taking care of yourself?”

If only she knew.

At work, my boss, Andrea, piled on another campaign. “You’re our rockstar, Emily. I know you’ll crush this.” I smiled through gritted teeth, already picturing the late nights, the missed workouts, the takeout containers accumulating in our sink.

By the time Friday rolled around, my nerves were shot. I forgot the bread. Matt was furious. Linda arrived with her signature lemon pie and a raised eyebrow. “No bread? Well, I suppose we can make do.”

Dinner was a minefield. Linda recounted Matt’s childhood victories. “He was student council president, you know! Always so organized.”

Matt beamed. I forced a smile.

Afterward, I escaped to the balcony, the city buzzing beneath me. My phone vibrated—Mom. I let it ring. I just couldn’t.

Matt joined me, arms crossed. “What’s up with you lately? You’re distracted, snappy. Are you unhappy?”

I opened my mouth, but the words caught. How could I explain the weight I carried? The fear that if I stopped performing, everyone would see how empty I really felt?

“I’m just tired,” I whispered.

He softened. “I know work’s tough. But you don’t have to do everything. Let me help.”

But he didn’t understand. No one did.

The next day, I met my friend Sarah for coffee. She ordered a muffin; I ordered herbal tea—no sugar. I watched her laugh, crumbs on her lips, hair messy, radiating ease. I envied her.

“You okay?” she asked, concern darkening her eyes.

“I’m just…overwhelmed. Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning.”

Sarah reached across the table. “Em, it’s okay to not have it all together. No one’s perfect. You don’t have to be.”

The words lingered in the air, foreign and sweet. Could it be true? Could I let go, even a little?

That night, I sat on the edge of my bathtub, knees to my chest, letting the hot water run. The mask slipped, and I sobbed—ugly, heaving sobs. I thought about quitting my job, about leaving Matt, about disappearing. I thought about calling my dad, but what would I say?

Instead, I called a therapist. Her voice was warm, inviting, and for the first time in years, I told the truth. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m so tired of being perfect.”

She listened. She didn’t judge. She told me what Sarah had said: “You don’t have to be perfect.”

Matt found me later, eyes swollen, voice raw. “I’m trying,” I said, “but I need you to see me. Really see me. Not the version everyone wants.”

He held me. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Tell me how to help.”

It’s been nine months since that night. I still struggle. I still want to make everyone happy. But now, I leave the dishes in the sink sometimes. I take walks alone. I say no to my boss, even if my hands shake. Matt and I started couples counseling. Linda still brings her lemon pie, but I let her comments roll off my back—or try to.

My mom called last week. I answered. She complained about my sister’s grades, about my brother’s messy room. I told her, gently, that we’re all human. She didn’t like it, but she heard me.

Maybe that’s enough for now.

Do you ever feel like you’re living someone else’s idea of perfect? What would happen if you let it go—even just for a day?