I’m Ulrika and I’m a recovering perfectionist, it was mental torture but at 54 I’m finally free
IT turns out that perfection is a very female issue.
My English nana used to say if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing properly, and that has stuck with me since I first met her, aged eight.
As a woman, I have always felt the need to hold things I do to impossibly high standards.
It isn’t just one thing. It’s all things — work, home, raising children, friendships, relationships.
There has been some weird compulsion within me to excel. Perhaps because I never felt I ever would — I never felt “excellent”. Or because that was the lot of every woman.
If I witnessed another woman being “perfect” in one aspect of their life, I had to follow. I had to be that and nothing less.
A study in the Psychological Bulletin reports soaring perfectionism in recent generations.
It could be societal pressures — I certainly feel the weight of expectations constantly.
And it turns out women are more affected than men. Perhaps this is because we have it drummed into us from childhood to be people-pleasers.
If I witnessed another woman being 'perfect' in one aspect of their life, I had to follow. I had to be that and nothing less.
I know I have felt that overbearing burden throughout my life.
Motherhood had to be faultless, domesticity ideal, and an increasingly cut-throat workplace meant no room for mistakes. And let’s not forget the competitiveness of social media, which insists on a projection of immaculate lives and where anything less than perfection is considered to be failure.
I’m not surprised to learn that the pursuit of perfection can damage our health — we are more likely to suffer depression and anxiety and even have eating disorders.
I did a TV job last October and, as with all programmes nowadays, it had psychologists crawling all over it — care and aftercare is now as crucial as a microphone and camera.
What emerged from my conversations with them was the fact I needed to stop trying to give 100 per cent to absolutely everything I did. Because it was just exhausting.
It was wearing me out and damaging my mental health.
That persistent pursuit was not just draining my energy — because it’s unachievable, I was also constantly left wanting.
I felt like I was never fully getting there, wherever “there” was.
I was trying to be all things to all people and never, ever felt good enough. I’m acutely aware I’ve been doing this all my life.
The worst thing was that it was very deeply ingrained.
Ironing and mowing
I never saw it as a pursuit of absolute perfection but rather that I would constantly criticise myself if there weren’t certain standards — in the home, in the garden, with the children, with work. I rarely stopped and just let things be.
I was instructed by said psychologists to try to let go. Bit by bit. Try to stop reaching for the unattainable and go easier on myself.
In all honesty, I just didn’t know how. I would punish myself, beat myself up if I wasn’t doing something all the time. If there was time in the day, I should be “doing”. I never understood that my mind and body were in dire need of a break.
And all this at nearly 54.
I’ve been so programmed to specific expectations but they weren’t always other people’s expectations — they were often my own. I have to confess, I’ve liked nothing much at all about the lockdowns we’ve had to endure but they have at least forced me to slow down and take time out.
I have found myself on more than one occasion just chilling on the sofa — doing nothing.
That is of course, what sofas are for, but for me to see a house in ever such slight disarray, knowing ironing needs doing or lawns need mowing and to not do those things was initially mental torture.
I struggled very badly with the restlessness of impeccability.
It was a constant pressure. The stress of leaving things undone was, at times, unbearable.
I had to reject the thoughts that were pushing and driving me towards the elusive and insurmountable. That was a task in itself and it’s been a struggle but I’m getting there.
I can’t speak for men but I see this kind of behaviour in a lot of women, and have to admit that since I’ve made changes in my life I am much happier.
I never had any idea how much happiness flaking on the sofa and doing nothing could bring.
I really didn’t.
I know I’ve shocked those closest to me — the ones who have been telling me for years that I should just chill and stop being so obsessive about things.
They still have to bring me into line every so often when compulsions get the better of me, but have delighted in the pleasure I’ve found in not always seeking excellence because they see a more balanced friend, mother, ex-wife.
My name is Ulrika and I’m a recovering perfectionist.
EMMA’S A MATCH WINNER
I’VE been to a lot of football games in my life, I’ve probably watched as many on the telly and I’ve lost count of the times I’ve rolled my eyes and not believed my ears when the commentators have spouted utter rubbish.
Not you, Tyldesley. We go way back . . .
But one of the great joys of the Euros – apart, of course, from the Final tomorrow – has been listening to Emma Hayes, manager of Chelsea Women, on ITV.
Her tactical insights and analysis have brought so much clarity and colour to the game.
She’s concise but warm, and has great humility without reeling off meaningless stats.
Her communication skills are second to none and her knowledge of the game itself has meant that unbeknownst to the viewers, she educates as she talks.
I bloody love Emma Hayes.
I do envy young Harry’s older woman
THERE isn’t a cell in my body that fancies young pop god Harry Styles.
My oldest daughter was obsessed with him at the height of One Direction’s fame and wore a T-shirt saying, “You can call me Mrs Styles”, which on reflection was a bit inappropriate as she was only 12.
But I got it – he’s cute, tattooed and has a deep, sultry voice. He also looks like Mick Jagger’s lovechild, so has a false, inherited reputation that precedes him.
But when I see him with his new flame, Olivia Wilde, I feel envy. He is 27, the same age as my son, while she is 37 and the mum of two young nippers.
This week, Styles and Wilde have looked loved-up on someone’s boat on some sea somewhere. They’ve been snapped deep in conversation, deep in snog, deep in some kind of dance. There is clearly a profound bond. And all despite the age difference.
Societally, we still find it more uncomfortable to see a senior woman with a junior man than vice versa, but we’re growing more accustomed to it.
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I’ve spoken about how I love the idea of it. I love the prospect of a young, energetic man, full of life, who might put some fun into an older woman’s life.
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It may be that Styles is one of a kind.
Maybe the fame game forced him to grow up quickly and mature with confidence, because the vast majority of young guys I’ve encountered have been egocentric, self-righteous and a tad vain. I’m here to be proved wrong.