I used to think perfection was a virtue. Like the holy grail of adulthood. If you’re perfect at something, chances are, you’ve cracked life. And the funny thing is… that actually works—at first.
Top performers, the ones who ace their academics, often end up being the same people who show up early at work, have symmetrical spreadsheets, and write emails with no typos and full stops in the right place. Discipline spills over. Excellence leaks from one area of life into another. And that’s beautiful.
But then life comes in with a hockey stick and whacks you across the head.
Because one fine day, this same top performer wakes up and realises he’s not just trying to be a perfect employee. No no—he’s also trying to be a perfect father, a perfect husband, a perfect driver who gives the indicator like it’s a TED Talk on lane discipline, a perfect WhatsApp replier who never leaves anyone on read, and a perfect friend who remembers everyone’s birthdays without Facebook reminders.
That, my friend, is the recipe for a mental breakdown with a garnish of burnout.
Here’s the thing. Perfection is not a switch. It’s a leak. Once it starts in one place, it drips into everything, and before you know it, you’re drowning in your own expectations.
So I tried something new. I picked where I want to be perfect.
At work, I chose the one thing I love and am paid well for. That’s where I bring my A-game. My studio? Tight. My VO gigs? On point. My mixes? Magical. But for all the donkey jobs that suck the life out of me—pointless reports, 3-hour meetings about nothing, or formatting PowerPoint slides like it’s an art form—I became gloriously average. Deliberately.
And guess what? People stopped giving me those tasks. Magic.
It’s like creating your own job description by being strategically bad at everything else. You become irreplaceable where it counts and invisible where it doesn’t.
Being “perfect” in all roles is not nobility—it’s poor time management.
So, here’s my new motto: Be a samurai where it matters, and a sloth everywhere else. Save your sword for the battle, not the banana peel.
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