It’s Called Practice, Not Perfection: The Hidden Toll of High-Stakes Professions

I remember when I first started as a therapist. Those initial sessions—ugh! I was so nervous, scared of messing up. I actually remember the moments leading up to those sessions more than the sessions themselves.

I wanted so badly to predict how things would go. I wanted to control the outcome, to script something that felt foolproof. I even drafted what looked like a lesson plan, even though I knew there’s no real way to script what happens in the therapy room. Looking back, I can see that came from a place of care: not wanting to cause harm, wanting my client to feel safe, to feel like I knew what I was doing.

But if I’m honest, maybe it also came from a place of distrust—of the process, of myself. A fear of the unknown. Imposter syndrome. That anxious need to control and appear competent can wear the mask of professionalism, but underneath, it’s often fear.

Control is a funny thing. We crave it. But sometimes the freest we feel is when we finally let go. Letting go of control doesn’t mean you’re going in blind. It means trusting what you know, remaining open, and allowing room for uncertainty. It’s not about rejecting standards or best practices. It’s about finding the balance between preparation and presence. Between structure and spaciousness.

There’s a common metaphor about quicksand: the more you fight it, the faster you sink. But if you stop resisting and lean into stillness—you start to float. Perfectionism and control tend to go hand in hand. And in high-stakes professions, that pairing runs deep.

Medical professionals. Therapists. Lawyers. Educators. These are fields where the work touches people’s lives in real, sometimes irreversible ways. Where outcomes matter—and where perfection doesn’t feel like a goal, but a baseline.

For many professionals, the pressure to get it exactly right doesn’t just come from clients or patients. It comes from within. That internal voice that says:

“If I mess this up, I’ve failed. I am the mistake.”

That voice often got louder in training, was rewarded in school, and eventually got mistaken for a work ethic. But over time, that drive toward flawlessness takes a toll.

Because perfection doesn’t leave room for humanness. It doesn’t allow for curiosity, reflection, or mistakes. It turns every interaction into something to be executed, every moment a performance to get right. And slowly, the work starts to feel hollow—even if you’re still hitting your marks.

Here’s the paradox: many of these professions are literally called practices. Dentistry is a practice. Medicine is a practice. Therapy is a practice. Teaching is often described as a craft, something to be refined over time.

Practice implies growth. Practice accepts imperfection. Practice makes room for the human.

But in many professional cultures, that word loses its meaning. Perfection becomes the unspoken standard, and vulnerability starts to feel like a liability.

What if we reclaimed the word practice?

What if it meant: You are allowed to grow. You can be excellent without being perfect.

Mistakes are part of the work, not proof that you shouldn’t be doing it.

This isn’t about lowering standards. It’s about remembering the roots of the practice—the reason so many of us entered these fields in the first place. A desire to help, to heal, to contribute, to make a difference. But when we lose sight of that, when perfectionism takes over, we stop seeing our own humanity. We stop honoring the values that once guided us in.

Yes, there are systemic pressures: to produce more, to see more patients, to justify our roles, to stretch thin resources across deep need. But perfectionism doesn’t solve those pressures. It buries us under them. And worse, it convinces us it’s working, because look how far we’ve gotten. Until the exhaustion kicks in. Until the joy slips out. Until we forget why we began at all.

Perfectionism slowly pushes us into autopilot. Into remote control. Into survival.

So how do we release control without losing clarity? How do we stay connected to our values in a system that often feels misaligned with them? How do we take even a moment to pause—during our workdays, in the flow of care—and reconnect with what really matters?

There’s no one answer. But maybe the first step is remembering that this is a practice.

You didn’t choose this path because you wanted to be perfect. You chose it because you wanted to make a difference. Let’s not forget that making a difference includes how you treat yourself.

To reflect on:

What small shift could you make this week to move from performing your role to actually feeling present in it?