The Perfectionist's Tantrum
On catching ourselves in the act of creative resistance
To be honest, there was a part of me that said, "This is the week I'll skip. There's too much going on, I just… can't."
I caught myself in that moment, returning back to the true root of what's being explored here in the first place.
What was actually happening is, I had another piece of writing planned. I wanted, I imagined, that I'd instead release an essay on something totally different—something about design, consciousness, the way we relate to space. Yet, instead, in accordance with this great emergence, this great unfolding, what's being asked, what's being noticed, are the subtleties of when we say, "I can't do it, it's too much."
"I can't, it's too much" is a nod to quality. It's the perfectionist crying, gripping for the outcome it was holding onto. So it releases. It throws a fit, striving onto the what-wasness of its perception. Watch closely: this is how creative death happens—not in grand gestures but in these small surrenders, these moments when we mistake exhaustion for truth.
For those who can see the subtleties in this dance, notice, this is a blocker to deeper creativity. It's putting a chokehold on what's truly looking to be expressed in this moment. The mind says one thing—produce, deliver, perform—while something else entirely is asking to breathe, to sigh, to exhale. What seemed necessary for now will present itself in right time.
I started skimming a new book, opened up to a page which landed on a chapter on patience—something our society inherently struggles with, some may say beyond repair. Of course, it would be patience. Of course, this would be the particular medicine under the door at this particular moment. We live in an era that has made waiting feel like failure, where every pause must justify itself against the tyranny of productivity.
Yet, upon developing the awareness, the tools, the skillsets, to see when it is time, when it is not, something loosens. The perfectionist's grip softens, if only by degrees.
Here's what I'm learning: sometimes the essay writes you. Sometimes you sit down to say one thing and find yourself saying another entirely, and the art lies not in forcing it back to your original vision but in following where it wants to go. Even here. Even now. Even when every instinct says, "This isn't what I planned."
Especially then.
Emergence with Rachel Weissman is a weekly exploration of the interconnections between consciousness, technology, and planetary flourishing.
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