The Blurred Lines Between Perfection, Perception and Purpose
I’m a college student who loathes breaks. Winter break, spring break, summer break—take your pick. And no, this isn’t me trying to be quirky— I’ve just never liked the lulls that breaks create. Every summer from first grade through eighth, I begged my mom for those Summer Bridge Activities workbooks so I could maintain some sense of school and consistent learning. (Whoever decided to discontinue them for high schoolers— I have some choice words for you.) But like a trooper, I adapted to their absence. I graduated from summer workbooks to Khan Academy, which had a vast library of subjects conveniently waiting for an eager young nerd like me to explore. Every summer until I graduated from high school, I loaded myself up with five or six courses, because “relaxing” has never been a word in my vocabulary.
If I’m being entirely truthful, it’s not just academic breaks that I struggle with— it’s the idea of giving myself a break at all. Breaks make me feel… empty. Any unfilled gap in my day feels like a problem I need to solve, preferably with a task that requires brain power. Stillness doesn’t feel restful to me; it feels like drowning— drowning in my thoughts and inactivity to the point where I’d rather write a 2,000-word essay than watch another episode of a sitcom or doomscroll. To me, productivity equals purpose. So, when that productivity vanishes, it’s quickly replaced with a hollow feeling in my chest and the urge to do something—anything—again. Productivity reassures me that I’m working toward my future. Studying means I’m getting smarter, leading an extracurricular activity helps me build organizational and management skills and even going to the gym feels like proof that I can take care of myself. Without those fillers, one uncomfortable question gnaws at my mind: Who am I if I’m not working myself to the point of burnout?
If you couldn’t already tell, this go-go mindset has always been my default. But I don’t think I developed this lifestyle of constant motion on my own. The phrase “I am my father’s daughter” hits a little too close to home— my dad has never been one to sit still for long, either. There’s always something for him to fix around the house, a church trustee meeting to lead or a jobsite to tend to. In comparison, my activity flow looks a little different, but we are both driven by the same instinct to accomplish. Watching him take on so many responsibilities taught me early on that being busy meant being useful. With this mindset, high school quickly became my haven of packed schedules— the place that rewarded my momentum and further cemented the idea that purpose is based on productivity.
Approaching freshman year, I wasn’t intimidated by the accelerated material in honors courses or the looming prospect of exams— I welcomed them as exciting challenges. Throughout the following semesters, perfect essay scores became addictive and carefully curating a color-coded study guide was the only acceptable pastime before a test. Soon, however, the weight of homework, extracurriculars and college applications began to stack up. Nights of only three to four hours of sleep were common (despite my mom’s protests) and only fueled the little voice in my head that told me less sleep meant fewer schedule gaps and more time for productivity. When people would ask me how I was, the responses “I’m exhausted” or “I’ve been busy” quickly replaced “I’m good.” While I didn’t mean it intentionally, I now notice that it was an underlying brag: stress became living proof of my die-hard ambition. I wanted people to know that I was working tirelessly to attain every good grade, every achievement and every moment of recognition. Somehow, in my book, burning out equaled the pinnacle of academic achievement— the glorious act of giving so much of my life to studies, student organization roles and the investment in college endeavors that there was physically nothing left to give. Yet, even with knowing how flawed that mindset is, I still haven’t grasped how to strive for success without demanding too much of myself.
I am growing. I no longer chase burnout. I make time to visit friends and weave small moments of prioritizing myself into my day. However, growth doesn’t mean I am fully healed. The “burnout” mindset has simply been suppressed and replaced by a milder “busyness” mindset— one that doesn’t strive for perfection or exhaustion but still likes to fill the day and try to be the best I can be. At the University of Wisconsin-Madison, I’m aware that being the best in a class of just over 8,000 students is nearly impossible. In high school, I would have taken the bull by its horns, but now I am content knowing I can make an impact by focusing my time on attainable academic goals and student organizations I am passionate about, rather than trying to be the best at everything on campus. Let me be clear— it’s not that I don’t want to excel at everything. Anyone who knows me can tell you I am stubbornly competitive, but my mindset growth has taught me to acknowledge the unattainability of perfection. Nevertheless, even if I reframe my own expectations, it doesn’t stop others from imposing their own expectations on me.
As if the pressures of perfection and productivity weren’t enough, the weight of perception has begun to cramp my ever-developing growth mindset. In high school, I never had to explain my ambition— my AP classes, leadership roles and achievements did for me. Now, the moment the question of my major comes up, I fight a visible cringe. I am not ashamed of my degree path, yet that never prevents the inevitable flash in their eyes. Some flash pity as if all my career prospects have been torn to shreds; others display indifference and suddenly start acting as if my IQ were that of a sea star. The theatre major has its own reputation for fluff classes and failed careers that I no longer expect people to overlook, but it never hurts any less.
It’s in those moments that I feel dangerously unstoppable. Their conclusions—formed without any further conversation—are enough for me to throw myself into an advanced algebraic structures course or the Wisconsin Robotics club (when binary code is already the bane of my existence), desperate to prove I am not air-headed or lazy. This, however, only leads me back to the burnout mindset I am actively trying to overcome. Once again, I’m pulled back to that familiar high school mentality, driven by the need to prove every mistaken judgment about me wrong. Yet, even when I tell myself that proving them wrong is what I want, I know it’s superficial to the underlying anxiety— the question of purpose itself.
From years of consistent routines—school, extracurriculars, and jobs—being my entire life, I’ve stripped my thinking back to a core fear: who am I if I’m not busy? It’s genuinely difficult to remember a time when I didn’t try to control every aspect of my schedule, filling it with something to do. This assiduous mentality has been ingrained in me, so when I find myself with an open afternoon, I honestly don’t know what to do with myself. One can imagine, then, the internal dread a four-month summer break induces when I’m left with weeks upon weeks of wondering what I’m good for without being the girl with the calendar packed to the margins. And beyond asking what I’m good for lies the more unsettling question: what if I’m not good enough? I know my purpose isn’t truly dependent on success, perfection or others’ opinions of me—but when the to-dos fall away, I am left questioning my worth without the noise of productivity to drown it out.
Now that I’ve said all of this—despite the contradiction I’m about to make—I enjoy being busy. I like working hard, and I plan on striving for success. I may still need to learn that accomplishments don’t equal my self-worth, but I wouldn’t be myself without craving an everyday challenge. And quite honestly, I don’t know if my sense of purpose will ever be fully separate from my level of productivity. Still, with all of this acknowledged, I’m left wrestling with my one final question: Is productivity something that grounds me, or something I hide behind?