When Excellence Ceases to Be a Choice

Artwork: Melencolia I, by Albrecht Dürer (1514)

There are people who seem to have developed a particularly intimate relationship with efficiency, productivity and the need for self-improvement. They are people who frequently set high standards for themselves, invest intensely in what they do and rarely feel satisfied due to the sense that something could have been done better. Not necessarily because they are unable to recognise what they have achieved, but because the very experience of achievement seems to be accompanied by the perception that there is still something to be developed, corrected or attained.

In many cases, this disposition is an important strength. There is something profoundly healthy about wanting to develop one’s abilities, seeking autonomy, wanting to build a life that corresponds to one’s own desires, and having a sense of responsibility towards the choices one makes. The possibility of setting high standards for oneself is deeply connected to self-esteem, one’s sense of competence and the capacity to invest in one’s own life.

Not every demand we place upon ourselves is excessive, just as not every ambition needs to be understood as a defence against some underlying lack. There is, however, an important difference between wanting to do something excellently and feeling the need to do it in this way in order to feel sufficiently secure about oneself and one’s life.

It is possible that, at some point, what initially presented itself as a choice acquired a dimension of necessity. The person does not merely want to be competent, but feels that they need to be competent; they do not merely want to live up to their own expectations, but experience significant difficulty tolerating the possibility of falling short of them. An error then ceases to be simply an inevitable part of experience and begins to acquire a greater significance, as though it revealed some inadequacy that needed to be immediately repaired. It is precisely in this territory that the discussion of perfectionism becomes more complex.

Contemporary literature does not regard perfectionism as a unitary phenomenon. There is a difference between striving for high standards and what can be understood as perfectionistic concerns, which involve excessive concern about mistakes, doubts about one’s own abilities, a discrepancy between who one is and who one believes one ought to be, and an evaluation of oneself that is excessively contingent upon performance. It is also worth emphasising that there are perfectionists who do not struggle with these issues of lower self-esteem, nor question themselves over mere mistakes; instead, they experience a restless drive towards constant self-improvement. They need to have everything under control.

Studies on burnout suggest, moreover, that it is not simply the existence of high standards that has the most consistent relationship with exhaustion, but rather the more self-critical and concerned dimension of perfectionism — concerns that extend beyond self-worth and towards a profound need to feel secure and protected.

This distinction is important because, when we speak of highly productive, intelligent and ambitious people, we risk pathologising precisely those characteristics that may be fundamental to building a meaningful life. The problem is not necessarily wanting a great deal from oneself. The heart of the matter may lie in the impossibility of continuing to recognise one’s own value when what one desired has not been achieved, or in never experiencing enough satisfaction with what one already has and is.

The need to be good enough

It is possible to think that, for some people, the pursuit of excellence developed in dialogue with very early experiences in which personal worth was, in some way, associated with performance.

This does not necessarily mean growing up in an explicitly critical family, in which parents demanded perfection or withdrew love in the face of any failure. The experiences through which a child develops an understanding of themselves are often far more subtle. They may have noticed that certain characteristics were particularly valued, that recognition came with greater intensity in response to certain achievements, or that being competent, responsible and independent was a particularly effective way of obtaining approval and recognition.

Some people therefore grow up learning that they are the ones who can manage.

They are the ones who do not need much help, who solve their own problems, achieve good results, meet expectations and, in some way, manage to construct a version of themselves that seems worthy of recognition.

Others develop a similar degree of autonomy for quite different reasons. Rather than having been excessively encouraged to achieve, they may have learnt that they could not rely very much on others. It is possible that, as children and young people, they were unable to rely on their parents’ understanding and emotional availability when they needed it most. They therefore adapted, developing self-regulation skills early, taking on responsibilities or learning that waiting for someone to be available could result in disappointment. Independence, in this context, may have been a necessary and deeply adaptive achievement.

The problem arises when a strategy that was appropriate to a particular reality in the past continues to organise experience even after that reality has changed. A person who learnt very early that they had to deal with things on their own may reach adulthood with a genuine difficulty in depending on others, even when there is no longer any concrete threat associated with dependence. Someone who found security in competence may come to seek security through ever-greater competence. And someone who discovered that it was possible to avoid the feeling of vulnerability by keeping everything under control may experience delegation not simply as a distribution of tasks, but as exposure to something they cannot guarantee.

It is possible that this is the point at which autonomy and hyper-independence begin to draw closer to one another without being the same thing. Autonomy presupposes the possibility of choosing when to do something oneself and when to turn to another person. Hyper-independence, by contrast, can make dependence so difficult to tolerate that the person remains responsible for virtually everything, even when this no longer corresponds to their needs or interests. They do not necessarily believe that others are incapable, but prefer to protect themselves by knowing that they will do things properly. They may simply be unable to relax when something important is no longer under their direct responsibility. There is a very convincing rationale behind the difficulty of delegating.

“If I do it, I know exactly how it was done.”

“If I oversee it, I can correct it before it becomes a problem.”

“If I delegate it, I may have to do it again afterwards.”

In certain situations, these statements may be true.

Competent people often have high standards because they have developed enough knowledge to recognise differences in quality that others may not yet be able to perceive. But there comes a point when competence ceases to be used to assess reality and begins to be used to justify the need to control it.

It is possible to know an area deeply and still need to learn that something being different does not necessarily make it inadequate. It is possible to have high standards and recognise that another person’s work may serve a particular purpose sufficiently well without needing to reproduce exactly the way one would have done it oneself. Delegating involves an experience that can be particularly difficult for those who have organised their sense of security around competence: the experience of not knowing exactly what will happen. When we delegate, we lose a degree of control over the process. We have to tolerate another person making decisions, organising their time differently, setting different priorities and, eventually, making mistakes that we might have avoided. This experience can be particularly difficult for someone who learnt that control is a form of security. In this case, the problem is not necessarily a lack of objective trust in the other person. At times, something deeper is taking place: a difficulty in tolerating being the person who is not in control. And this can create an important paradox in leadership. The more competent a person becomes, the greater their capacity to assume responsibility may be. But if they do not simultaneously develop the capacity to share that responsibility, their very competence can leave them increasingly overwhelmed. They become the person everyone turns to because they solve things. And precisely because they solve things, they are given more and more things to solve.

The cost of being an overachiever

There is a kind of social recognition associated with this way of functioning that makes its costs particularly difficult to perceive.

We live in a culture that frequently values productivity, optimisation and the idea that we should be continually developing a better version of ourselves. For certain people, this logic encounters an existing psychological disposition and produces a particularly powerful combination: the more they achieve, the more they notice what they could still achieve. Achievement, therefore, does not bring the movement to an end; it prolongs it. A promotion leads to a new goal; completing one qualification leads to another; a successful project becomes the benchmark for what must be done next. Even rest can become another task to be performed properly, as though one needed to learn how to rest correctly, care for oneself correctly, organise one’s routine correctly. The person comes to live in a kind of permanent relationship with their own potential: They are always becoming, always developing, always seeking their best version. And there is something paradoxical about this, because the pursuit of fulfilment can begin precisely to prevent the experience of feeling fulfilled.

The literature on burnout helps us understand part of this dynamic. The problem does not seem to lie simply in intense investment or the pursuit of excellence, but in the combination of high demands and a self-critical relationship with one’s own performance. When a person feels that they never adequately meet the standard they have set, work ceases to be merely a place of fulfilment and also becomes a space in which they must continually confirm their own competence. Beyond this, as many of these people have learnt not to depend on others and, in many cases, that the love they received was conditional, they may find it extremely difficult to say no. It is therefore possible for someone to be extremely successful and, at the same time, deeply insecure, whether in relation to themselves and/or to life and the future. Not because they lack objective evidence of their competence, but because no amount of evidence seems sufficient to produce a lasting sense of security.

When there is no room for not knowing

Perhaps one of the most difficult dimensions of this way of functioning is the relationship with vulnerability. Highly efficient people often develop a sophisticated relationship with problems: they quickly identify what needs to be done, organise resources, anticipate obstacles and find solutions. It is a valuable capacity. But life is not made up solely of problems that can be solved. There are losses that cannot be organised, relationships that cannot be controlled, uncertainties that cannot be eliminated and situations in which depending on another person is inevitable.

In such circumstances, perhaps the difficulty does not lie in not knowing what to do. It may lie in tolerating not knowing and trusting. The same can happen in relationships. A person who has learnt to build security through their own competence may feel comfortable occupying the position of the one who gives, organises and sustains, but experience discomfort when they need to receive, wait or allow another person to take responsibility.

There is a difference between being independent and needing to be independent. In the first situation, autonomy is a possibility. In the second, it can become an internal demand. And what appears to be strength to an outside observer may, internally, be experienced as an inability to rest in the presence of another person.

What remains when performance can no longer answer for everything?

Perhaps one of the most important questions for these people is precisely the one that emerges when work can no longer answer for everything. Who am I when I am not producing? When I am not solving things? When I am not being competent? When I am not being admired for what I do? When there is no immediate goal in front of me? And if I become ill and cannot do things, is there someone who will manage things for me?

These questions can be particularly difficult because, for some people, their profession is not merely one part of their identity. It has become the primary place through which identity is experienced. There is nothing inherently problematic about finding meaning in work. For many people, working, creating, researching, leading or building something constitutes a central dimension of existence. The question arises when it becomes difficult to find value in any part of oneself that is unrelated to achievement. At that point, a pause may be experienced as emptiness, rest may produce guilt, and idleness may seem unproductive. And a life that is not constantly developing can begin to feel like a life being wasted. But what happens internally? With the focus always on control and certainty, how can one enjoy the present? It may therefore be necessary to ask whether the relentless pursuit of one’s best version also allows room to recognise the person who already exists. Is there love for oneself and for life in the present moment? With one’s abilities and limitations, with what one knows and what one does not yet know, with what one can sustain and that in relation to which one needs another person?

Excellence does not have to mean exhaustion

The aim is not to abandon ambition, lower one’s standards or convince someone who has always pursued excellence that they ought to settle for less. That would be far too simple a conclusion for an issue that is, precisely, more complex.

Rather, it is necessary to understand what function excellence serves in that person’s life. When it is an expression of curiosity, creativity, autonomy, pleasure and investment in oneself, it can be an extraordinary strength. There is a difference between someone who wants to achieve a great deal because they find meaning in achievement and someone who needs to achieve a great deal in order to feel that they have value or to have any sense of confidence in the flow of life.

The same productivity can arise from completely different internal places. The same leadership can be an expression of strength or a need for control. The same independence can signify autonomy or difficulty trusting. The same high standard can represent love for one’s work or a fear of discovering that, without excellence, one may not quite know who one is.

An important question to ask is: “What happens to me when I cannot meet the demands I have set for myself?”

If there is room for error, perhaps the standard is a choice. If there is not, perhaps it is a prison. If it is possible to delegate and take things back later, perhaps there is autonomy. If delegating produces anxiety, perhaps there is a deeper pain that deserves to be understood… If work is an important part of who we are, this can be profoundly healthy. But if, without work, we do not know who we are, perhaps it is necessary to discover which other parts of ourselves were left waiting while we built the part that learnt to be so competent. Because there may be a form of excellence that is not related to doing more, producing more or continually becoming better. Perhaps it is related to the capacity to recognise our own limitations without experiencing them as a threat, to allow other people to participate in what we have built and to tolerate the fact that not everything will happen exactly as we would like. And perhaps, for some of those who have spent much of their lives developing the capacity to sustain everything, one of the most difficult experiences may also be one of the most necessary: discovering that being capable of doing something alone does not mean that one has to do it alone. And that a sufficiently good life does not have to be one in which we manage to control every variable, avoid every mistake and fulfil every potential; it can be one in which we can continue to expect a great deal from ourselves without turning that desire into a condition for being able to recognise some value in who we already are — and without turning our ability to sustain life into a reason not to allow someone else, at times, to sustain it alongside us.