I was born a perfectionist.
And one of my earliest memories of my perfectionism was the habit of making my bed every morning as a child – something relatively trivial but which seemed extraordinary at the time.
As the years passed and even right into my adult life, I realized the inordinate amount of time I’d spend fussing over every wrinkle and crease. It just had to be perfect. Ask bae!
Ensuring my bed was perfectly made was a sign of something deeper. I started my day with perfection because I wanted my whole day, and my life, to be perfect. To be predictable. To be safe.