Why working moms can’t stop trying to be perfect and what it is actually costing them

I was on the highway.

November 2018. I remember it because nothing about that morning felt particularly dramatic, but somehow it became one of those moments I can still see really clearly.

I was listening to an audiobook I had been avoiding for weeks. I did not even make it to chapter one.

Because in the introduction, the author said something about perfectionism. Something about how it is not really about high standards at all. And I remember thinking, I do not have a perfectionism problem. I just like things done right.

And then about thirty seconds later I caught myself mentally critiquing how I had said good morning to my daughter before leaving the house.

The tone. Whether it was warm enough. Whether I had been present enough in that small moment. Whether she would remember that specific morning in some way I had not intended.

But in that moment, I could hear it so clearly.

And then something else landed right after that. And this one was harder.

Because I realized that voice was not staying inside me. My daughters were watching me live inside it every single day.

Welcome back to Unscripted, a Momtoring podcast for working mothers trying to hear themselves again underneath all the noise.

I’m Andi Salcedo. Coach, working mother, founder of Momtoring, and someone who is still actively figuring a lot of this out in real time, honestly.

Last week we talked about the operating system underneath our behavior. The beliefs quietly running the show while we think we are just reacting to life. And today I want to stay close to that conversation because I think there is one pattern in particular that so many working mothers are carrying without even realizing how much it is costing them.

Perfectionism.

Not the cute version people joke about. Not color coded pantry perfectionism. I mean the kind that quietly organizes your whole relationship with yourself.

So after that morning in the car, I started noticing things. Not in a dramatic life changing revelation kind of way. More like little moments I suddenly could not unsee anymore.

Because if that voice in my head was not ambition, then what was it?

And the confusing part is that perfectionism does not look unhealthy from the outside. It looks responsible. It looks capable. It looks like someone who has it together.

Especially in working motherhood where being the reliable one gets rewarded constantly. The mom who remembers everything. The professional who catches every mistake. The person who handles things before anyone else even notices they need handling.

It all looks very functional.

But inside, it feels very different.

Because striving toward something healthy feels open. There is energy in it. Curiosity. Aliveness.

Perfectionism feels tight. Like you can never fully exhale.

And then I came across this definition from Brené Brown that stopped me completely. She says perfectionism is the belief that if we live perfectly, look perfectly, and act perfectly, we can avoid blame, judgment, and shame.

And I remember reading that and thinking… ay.

This is not about standards. This is about protection. This is about trying to never be caught failing. Trying to never disappoint anyone. Trying to never give people a reason to criticize you.

And suddenly so many things in my life made sense.

Because perfectionism had honestly convinced me it was helping me. Meanwhile I was exhausted.

And the thing about protection is that eventually you start asking whether the thing protecting you is also trapping you. Because shields work both ways. They keep things out. But they also keep you in.

And I think working mothers especially feel this. Because the performance is happening everywhere at the same time. At work. At home. At school pickup. In the group chat. In your marriage.

Even in rest somehow. Which is honestly impressive in the saddest possible way. Like congratulations to us for turning relaxation into another thing to optimize.

I started realizing perfectionism had cost me things I never would have named before. Ease. Spontaneity. The ability to do something imperfectly and survive it emotionally.

And maybe the biggest one was this constant feeling that no matter how much I did, it still was not landing somewhere solid inside me. The bar just kept moving.

You finish the project. Then immediately you see what could have been better.

You handle the thing. Then you replay the conversation in your head later while unloading the dishwasher like your own tiny legal team building a case against you.

It is exhausting.

And invisible.

That is the part that gets me.

Nobody really sees the things perfectionism stops you from doing. The email you do not send yet. The idea you do not share. The thing you keep editing. The version of yourself you keep holding back until she is somehow more polished, more ready, more certain.

I ran an event earlier this year and I remember the emotional rollercoaster of preparing for it. One day I thought it was going to be incredible. The next day I was convinced it was weak and not ready and honestly maybe everyone would secretly regret coming.

Very stable emotional environment over here.

And then the actual day arrived. And something in me was too tired to keep performing perfect.

I practiced a little. Not obsessively.

I walked in and decided I was just going to be there as myself. Not the polished version. Not the hyper controlled version. Just me.

And it ended up being one of the best nights of the year.

Not because everything was flawless. It was not. But because I could actually feel myself inside the experience.

I was present. I was connected.

I was not standing outside myself monitoring every word while simultaneously pretending to be relaxed. Which, if you know, you know.

And I keep thinking now that maybe perfectionism does not just cost us energy.

Maybe it costs us contact.

With ourselves.

With other people.

With real life while it is happening.

I saw this most clearly with my daughters.

My youngest used to get so upset when she made mistakes drawing. If something did not come out the way she wanted, she would crumple the paper immediately. Sometimes tear it up completely.

Done.

And the second I saw it, I recognized it. That tiny heartbreak of not being able to tolerate imperfection.

I knew exactly where she had learned it.

Not because I had sat her down and taught her perfectionism. But because she had watched me live inside it.

So we started working on it together. At home. With support from school too.

We started saying out loud that mistakes are part of being human. That the drawing does not have to disappear just because it did not come out the way you imagined.

And slowly things started changing.

Not perfectly. Obviously.

But little by little.

And then one day recently, I made some small mistake. I honestly cannot even remember what it was now.

But I remember her looking at me and saying very casually:

“It’s okay to make mistakes, mommy.”

And I do not know.

Something about hearing my own words come back to me through her just stayed with me.

Because that is the real inheritance, right?

Not the speeches.

The atmosphere.

The way we speak to ourselves when things go wrong. The way we recover. The way we let ourselves be human or do not.

I want my daughters to grow up knowing they do not have to earn their worth through performance.

And the uncomfortable part is realizing they will learn that much more from what I model than from what I say.

So lately I have been thinking a lot about this idea of good enough.

And honestly, for a long time I hated that phrase. Good enough sounded like giving up. Like lowering the bar. Like mediocrity.

But I do not think that anymore.

I think good enough might actually be where life starts breathing again.

Not because standards disappear. But because they become human sized. Named. Possible.

Not these invisible moving targets we spend our whole lives chasing.

So here is something I want you to try this week.

Write down what being a good enough mother actually means to you.

Not Instagram. Not the internet. Not the imaginary committee of women in your head judging your every move.

You. Your life. Your kids. This season.

What does enough actually look like there?

Because you cannot meet a standard you have never defined.

And maybe some of the exhaustion comes from trying to reach something that was impossible from the start.

I keep thinking about that morning on the highway. About how long I thought that voice was just who I was.

And honestly, maybe part of healing is realizing you can thank the shield for trying to protect you and still decide you do not want to wear it all the time anymore.

Your kids do not need a perfect mother.

They need one who feels alive when she is with them.

And maybe that starts here.

A little less performing.

A little more breathing.

Vamos de a poco.

I’m Andi Salcedo, and this is Unscripted.

I’ll see you next week.