Why perfectionism is killing your creativity

Creativity is not a state of achieved perfection; it’s a willingness to dialogue with chaos, to dance on the edges of the abyss of “I don’t know”.

---

When I was 11 years old, I wrote a poem about Brazilian folklore legends for a Portuguese class. When it was time to hand out the assignments, my teacher looked at me half surprised, just like when you notice a bird outside your window and hold your breath for a few seconds for fear of scaring it away. She asked me to wait until the end of class to talk, and in those minutes that dragged on between empty desks, I felt like I was in trouble. 

At the end of the class, as promised, she approached me and, to my surprise, complimented my poem. She insisted that I sign up for the school’s art contest. 

The problem with unexpected compliments is that it may build a scaffold around your soul, and suddenly you find yourself forced to grow in the direction that others expect of you. I didn’t want to participate — I never enjoyed the spotlights. But she insisted, with the unshakable conviction of adults who confuse potential with duty, saying that talent cannot be wasted. I spent weeks suffering with the idea, anxious. I didn’t actually fear failing, but being seen trying. 

My poem came in last place in the contest, beaten by people who navigated the territory of art with the familiarity of natives, while I was just an accidental tourist, lost without a map or dictionary. 

I quit writing for a long time, convinced that I wasn’t born for the arts. I didn’t have it in me — the gift, the talent. I had tried, hadn’t I? But there was no point in spending more time and energy on something fruitless. That carefree, casual poem never saw the light of day again. It died there, suffocated by my own inability to accept it as it was: imperfect, incomplete. Perfectionism is a peculiar kind of anticipatory grief. We mourn the death of something we haven’t even had the courage to create yet. 

Here’s something we rarely admit: no great artist has ever felt that their work was truly “done.” Van Gogh never looked at Starry Night and thought, “Yes, that captures exactly what’s inside my head.” Art — all art — is, at its core, an imperfect translation of the ineffable, an attempt to materialize what exists only as a feeling, a possibility. Creativity is not a state of achieved perfection; it’s a willingness to dialogue with chaos, to dance on the edges of the abyss of “I don’t know”. 

When I finally understood what the expectation of perfection means for creativity, I was able to get back to doing the things that gave me pleasure just for the sake of doing them. Just by trying them. I started writing again. Learned to draw. Ventured into watercolor, acrylic canvases, digital painting, cold porcelain sculptures. 

I was able to do things I never imagined I could do, just because I understood that I didn’t need to be the best in the world when doing them. I could just have fun. And that was more than enough.

The universe works through trial and error. The stars explode. Cells mutate. Species evolve through countless drafts that nature has never been shy about showing. Only we, with our overdeveloped brains and insecure hearts, invented this strange idea that we could or should be perfect. 

Fun is not a secondary aspect of the creative process — it’s the heart of creation. Learning is not linear. It’s a spiral that revisits the same points at different altitudes. Our mistakes are not deviations from the path — they’re part of the path itself.

Imagine if we treated our creativity like a dear friend. Would we tell this friend that their worth depends on their ability to produce perfect work? That they don’t deserve space or a voice until they can speak without ever stumbling over their words? Perfectionism is an elaborate mix of fear and ambition. It’s the fear of rejection, of vulnerability, of exposure. But the paradox is that we can only create something truly meaningful when we are willing to be seen in our full, imperfect humanity. 

So today, right now, write that terrible poem. Paint that awkward picture. Compose that song that you don’t know where it’s going yet. And when you’re done, don’t ask yourself, “Is this good enough?” Ask: “Does this make me feel alive?” Because in the end, life — even imperfect — is all that really matters.

---