How can a perceived compliment in my thirties feel so wrong today? Why does the confidence found in today’s wisdom seem so elusive in my earlier years?
The perfectionist is never satisfied. The perfectionist never says, “This is pretty good, I think I’ll just keep going.” To the perfectionist, there is always room for improvement. The perfectionist calls this humility, but it is egotism. It is pride that drives the desire to write a perfect script, paint a flawless painting, or perform an impeccable monologue. Perfectionism is not a quest for the best; it is a pursuit of the worst in ourselves—the part that whispers that nothing we do will ever be good enough. It demands we try again. But no, we should not.
My perceived perfectionism was a lifestyle woven into every fiber of my being, slowly, secretly, and without notice. It robbed me of the ability to enjoy the abstract beauty of imperfection, haunting my mind with the belief that “better” was just around the corner—or hidden beneath a veiled plate. Perfectionism kills our dreams and the simple joy of being good enough. It agitates, both mentally and physically, with an incessant need to achieve more.
So how does perfectionism feel so generous in its pursuit yet create a selfish shell of one’s leadership?
My perfectionism couldn’t be turned off with a simple, overbearing self-acknowledgment. Countless managers summoned me to reality with warnings: “You must change, Chef, or we don’t need you.” These confrontations often went unnoticed by me, manifesting instead as a ticking stopwatch—measuring fleeting moments of nonexistent satisfaction.
Could it have been humility or fear that kept me from enjoying the present? How can anyone be content when their brain is trained to identify weaknesses, both in themselves and others?
I didn’t see myself as a perfectionist. It was a label given by others. When your mind is laser-focused on constant improvement, you rarely question its perceptions. This mindset was fueled by fear, anxiety, resentment, and shame. These overwhelming emotions crushed any opportunity for self-reflection, replaced by the ever-present mantra of “What’s next?”
It was 2 p.m. on a Mother’s Day, deep into the second phase of a grand buffet serving 1,200 guests, when I sent an email to the Director of Food and Beverage and the Executive Chef, listing eighty mistakes I had observed. It spanned four pages—not personal, but it might as well have been. My assistant finally broke his professional silence and said, “Enough.” Later, in a quiet but pointed manner, he added, “Can’t we just enjoy the process of getting better?”
That moment was a low point in my leadership journey, defining just how much I had yet to learn about guiding others.
For most of my life, I couldn’t sleep. The silence of the night roared with the noise of my perceived mistakes. I couldn’t rest in hotels or resorts where I worked, often driving home deep into the night, consumed by anxiety. Once home, I would pour my thoughts into long, winding emails—4 a.m. downloads sent to unsuspecting inboxes. Not mean, most of the time, but inconsiderate nonetheless. These emails reflected all the things I felt hadn’t been accomplished or needed improvement.
I also pushed my frustrations onto my lieutenants, often asking, “Where is the creativity? Why do I have to do all the thinking?” One brave sous chef once replied, “Chef, if you don’t stop doing all the thinking, creativity will never happen.”
Fair enough—but I believed my ideas were clearer, deeper, and mistake-free. Or so I thought.
There were moments when I glimpsed how my behavior impacted others. Once, as I rounded the corner of the pantry, I overheard someone joke, “I bet Chef folds his underwear perfectly in his top drawer.” It was a moment of clarity: the speed at which I moved left no room for others’ opinions to matter.
My worst habit was failing to acknowledge my team in even the simplest of ways. I never said goodnight. My fear of not being in the kitchen long enough manifested as the “Irish goodbye”—slipping out the side door late at night. One sous chef eventually said, “Chef, we deserve better than this.”
Even significant accomplishments, like completing the Certified Master Chef exam, felt hollow. Driving home, my mind replayed a slideshow of perceived mistakes. I focused on pastry, which had scored lower than expected, despite being the area I had practiced most. My drive for perfection left me blind to the significance of what I had achieved.
So how does any of this matter if we don’t learn from it? I can’t fully tell that story—others must secure the relevance of my journey in their own words. Today, my colleagues marvel that these stories are even part of my past, given our current relationships. Some chefs have shared that I judged them harshly in a previous life. My response is always the same: “How did that go for you?”
Much like the recent Charlie Trotter film suggests, the experience of learning from someone’s intelligence can leave a vastly different impression than their personality. I never judge a chef or leader based on someone else’s story.
Am I grateful to have been driven? Of course. But I am even more blessed to have had the opportunity to change and influence others in a more positive way. Life is a journey of self-development, and wisdom, it seems, presents itself only when we are ready to receive it.
