Senior Millennials: Try These 4 Radical Steps To Un-Alive The Perfectionist Beast
I have fond memories of my childhood in the late ‘80s and ‘90s, especially the moments with my Granny, who I grew up adoring like how people loved Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, or Prince back then. I literally idolized her. She could do no wrong.
My Granny always kept her hair neat, wore her tailored clothes meticulously “pressed” (or “ironed” in Southern-speak), always paired red lipstick with red nails, and kept a clean home. She paid her own bills—on time—had good credit (a concept I learned about in my latter teen years), and she could always go and buy anything she wanted from a department store. She cooked the best Sunday dinners, was systematic about anything she did, and she just always seemed so, well, perfect.
She’d also always let you know her very critical opinion of any- and everybody, especially family members. If you need a visual of my Granny, think about that Aunt Song character in “Crooklyn.”
Oftentimes, it would be hard for her to offer a compliment without a judgment trailing right behind it. Just when you thought you’d impressed her, she’d bring you back down to reality with a shady jab or quip. “Well, don’t you look cute today! You couldn’t have worn a better shoe with that dress though? And why is your hair looking like that? Sit down and let me go get the curlers.”
I grew up trying to emulate the perfection I thought she exuded.
We met when I was five years old— the earliest memory I have of her—and I felt like an outsider, coming from a whole different world and missing my father. My mom had left where I was born —and where many of my father’s people are from— to start anew with her side of the family.
When my Granny greeted me, I was optimistic and hopeful. I felt like maybe I could get used to a new normal in this small town full of green grass and match-box homes.
“Look at this ugly girl!” she said with a haughty laugh, reaching out to me for a hug.
I remember feeling confused and embarrassed—like she’d discovered something in me that I was, even at five, too blind or dumb to see. (I even thought maybe that was the reason my father wasn’t around. I was too ugly.)
From that day on, I’d made a promise to myself to prove to her that I could be just like her—pretty, poised, and perfect. And one day, my father would notice, and he’d stay with us.
I was an honor student, hung out with the smart, upper middle-class, popular girls, never got caught doing anything that would get me expelled from school (key word: caught), was a debutante, went to a prestigious college, landed jobs at major publications, and left home for good when I was just 21 in order to pave my own way in New York.
My father never did notice, apparently. After age 6 or so, I wouldn’t see him again until I turned 14, and today, it’s been more than two decades. However, my Granny has always been a mainstay—present at the most minute and the most important times of my life.
I spent many years trying to live up to a facade of what I thought my Granny was. I felt like I owed her, like I had to become something (not someone) she could be proud of. I could be that doll she wanted me to be.
“Granny look! I have a new column that’s just for me. They chose me especially for this,” I’d say.
She’d glance and reply, “Ah! But why does your face look so fat in the picture? Are you eating too much? I bet you’re out spending all your paycheck on food at restaurants. And what’s going on with your hair?”
It would literally kill all of the joy it took to gas me up to even share the moment with her in hopes that she’d finally outright say she was proud of me. I’d end up focusing on how angry she’d made me instead of celebrating my own, well-deserved accomplishment.
(She’d later take a clipping of my first column and put it in a collection of things she’d been keeping about me. I’d never know this until years later. )
When I hit my 30s, I found out many things about my Granny that humanized her—knocked that unrealistic version of her right off that pedestal—and I had to work with a therapist to process through the hurt and disappointment I felt not only for trying to live up to some wacky unrealistic version of what I thought she wanted me to be, but forgive myself for the shame I felt in believing that she had no flaws, comparing my mom to her, and buying into that stereotype of the tragic Black southern belle.
I owe my Granny nothing.
I owe MYSELF everything.
I deserve to just BE.
And I am—in my human imperfections—worthy.
My Granny had given me so much and loved me the only way she could. And don’t get me wrong: She, now 93 years old, is an amazing woman who sacrificed a lot to see me succeed, taught me to hold my head high, gave me standards to live by, told me to never call myself “poor,” and to always depend on myself for happiness.
I had to slay the perfection beast by letting go of some of the judgements she’d pass along on me, the pressure she’d place on me through a collection of snide comments, and unlearn some of the self-hate and hurt I’d felt.
I can leave dishes in the sink, fail at my first almost-six-figure job, start over however many times I want to, wear my natural curls freely, go outside with a T-shirt and no bra, wear my fat rolls in a bikini, and still be an amazing human being…
Because I am.
As a matter of fact, my realness—my outspoken energy, my spirit that does not bend to what is traditional or what is forced upon me— are hugely relatable to the many people who have heard me speak, who read my work, or who have worked with me.
My biggest takeaways I’d like to offer:
