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Perfection

Spring came, and like any senior about to graduate, I was excited and terrified. It felt as though middle and high school were all aimed at preparing for what was next: college. All those years working to have a “well-rounded” application, getting into the right schools, and ultimately earning scholarships so I could afford to go. I researched schools, toured them, and narrowed them down to five possibilities. My applications were all in. I was now waiting for my fate through acceptance letters and financial aid packages.

I earned my first 4.0 grade point average my first semester of high school. The affirmation was addictive, and I determined to graduate with no less. Academic perfection seemed like a worthy goal. And I rounded out my college application with class president, cheerleader, and city orchestra. I added tennis team to the résumé, even though I hated going to practice and competing. I probably hated tennis because I was terrible and didn’t do things I couldn’t master. But I needed a sport in order to waive my PE requirements, allowing me to not jeopardize my flawless grade point average with a gym class.

Striving for the perfect college application offered a road map for what to do during my teenage years. What classes to take, after-school activities to participate in, friends to have. If this was the formula for excellence, I was going to follow it and master it. I was going to will myself to be the best. If that meant starting my weekend homework on Friday night, staying up until midnight, and studying during my lunch hour, I would. It could earn me that scholarship, that ticket to the next place, but more, it could justify that I was indeed worth noticing.

Fifteen years later, I sat in my MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) group in Denver, listening to a speaker talk about healthy sexual development in kids. I was nervous about the presentation because as the group’s coordinator, I’d arranged for the speaker, and I wasn’t sure if she would address that controversial list of rules for right living and offend the women who were my friends. Would the topic even feel relevant, considering how young our kids were? I mean, really, how much was there to say about preschoolers and sexual development? But Mary came highly recommended and was free, so I booked her.

I could tell right away she was connecting with the group. She covered sexual abuse, how to talk to three-year-olds about their bodies, and appropriate touch. She told stories of her own abuse and how it impacted her marriage.

My friend Jen raised her hand and asked, “What about being naked in front of your kids?”

“I never saw my parents naked, and my kids see me get in and out of the shower.”

I sat in the front row, pleased as moms interrupted Mary with their questions. They weren’t offended; they couldn’t get enough. She was talking about the influence of same-sex and opposite-sex parents on their kids, and how the absence of one parent could impact a child’s development. Then Mary said something that felt like a bullhorn in my face.

“If a girl’s father is absent”—the hairs on the back of my neck started to stand in anticipation of what she was about to say—“she tends to fall into one of two categories. She becomes either sexually promiscuous, trying to get men’s attention and affection, or a perfectionist, trying to prove she is worthy of love.”

There it was—clunk. The mirror had been lifted and the reflection was clear: a perfectionist trying to prove she was worthy of love. In an instant, memories of academic anxiety, of falling short in the tangible measuring sticks of high school life, came flooding to mind. I had a new clarity about what pushed my teenage self to be so good at everything all the time.

The spring of my senior year of high school, I attended a Christian leadership conference for students in Olympia, the state’s capital. The overhead lighting was stark, and even though there were no windows, I knew it was raining outside. I was clearly one of the youngest in the conference’s hotel ballroom. I sat in my chair holding my notebook and pen, waiting. I opened the notebook. Closed it. Opened it again and hoped I looked busy. The other students played similar games, opening their Bibles and pretending to read, shuffling through their bags, looking for something, anything, as long as it looked like they were comfortable sitting alone.

The conference speaker was introduced as an NFL player. Though I’d never watched an entire professional football game, his name sounded familiar. As he climbed the steps to the stage, his broad frame and chiseled jaw confirmed his career. He quickly started into his story of coming to faith, but what stood out to me was his story of finding love, tangible love, in his wife. They met in college. He was a bad boy, and she convinced him to be different. They saved themselves for marriage so they could prove their self-control to each other. A commitment to show they weren’t in it for the immediate gratification but for a lifetime relationship.

I could feel my heart melting into a buttery mess on the hotel carpet underneath me. To have someone that strong say, “I will wait for you, I will take care of you”—that’s what I wanted. I knew it went against the “you don’t need a man to be happy” principle my mother worked so hard to instill. But I wanted it anyway.

I mastered the high school formula for success; it was pretty clear I was going to make it to graduation with my 4.0 intact and a valedictorian title. By my schooling standards, I measured up at perfect. But my heartache persisted. Maybe what I needed was a formula for love. And God felt too distant, too intangible. The key must be finding the right man. One who chose to live by the rules and to stick it out. Someone who proved trustworthy on the front end so there wouldn’t be risk of regret later. The result would be someone—a man, a husband—who would not leave. Who instead would wrap his arms around me, protect me, and never let go.