Perfection Paralysis

13 December 2025

Above: When there is no clear finish line, the pursuit of perfection can become a barrier rather than a motivator. Image generated by ChatGPT.

I've always loved being creative. Whether writing lyrics, designing posters or websites, coming up with new ideas, or taking photographs, the simple act of making something and achieving a finished result gave me a natural sense of joy. Looking back, I think that sense of achievement was critical for developing self-confidence in my youth, a form of self-validation that I could do something and that I had worth. That may sound a little extreme, but as a child, I often struggled to feel that I was "good at something". Being able to create something my way, to my standards, in my own time became essential to me, particularly because I liked spending time alone doing my own thing. It is probably why I spent so much time drawn to creative work.

A Perfect Cage

With that said, setting your own standards is not necessarily as freeing as it first appears. At least for me, it later became a cage.

I've spent years chasing the perfect photo, edit, or sentence – and producing less because of it. And in an ironic paradox, the more I improved, the harder it became to decide if something was finished.

As I gained confidence in new skills, such as learning to build a website or becoming comfortable with image-editing software, a pattern began to emerge. No matter what I created, I was never completely satisfied. The more I learned about what was possible, either through deeper technical knowledge or by looking at what others were producing, the more I noticed what I perceived as missed potential in my own work. Instead of feeling proud of what I had created, my attention shifted to what I should have done differently.

In many cases, I would go back and rework the same piece, producing version two, version three, or more. Yet none of those versions ever felt finished. Each one entered the same cycle of revision and doubt, coupled with endless readjustment. The only thing that reliably brought that cycle to an end was moving on to a new project, or, where one existed, the arrival of a deadline.

Later, I came to realise that these behaviours were likely amplified by my autism. Comparing my work to others' felt inescapable because their output seemed to set a clear benchmark for what "good" actually looked like when I had no other measure. Their work was being seen, shared, or commented on. Mine was not. It was easy to conclude that visibility directly correlated with quality, even if that logic was flawed, and I conveniently forgot that I had sought out the comparison.

That said, comparison and the associated paralysis are not something that only affects neurodivergent creatives. Many people experience this. The difference, for me, was in how intensely I noticed detail and nuance in the work of others, particularly things I believed my own work lacked. That attention to detail is often an advantage, but in this context, it became a liability. It highlighted possibilities I had not previously considered, which I then interpreted as deficiencies in my own work.

Infinite Choices

Surprisingly, advances in creative software and social media have significantly amplified, rather than simplified, these issues for me. Take photo editing as an example. The tools have become so powerful that the number of creative choices now feels effectively infinite. It can take years to properly understand a single piece of software, and there is no shortage of tutorials showing you techniques you had never previously considered. That new knowledge brings with it the realisation that your earlier work could have been different, better, or more refined. Once noticed, it became difficult not to look back and see missed opportunities everywhere.

That drive towards completion became paralysing because there was no finish line. Absent an end point, I stopped sharing my photography for several years, and I stopped writing. What was the point when others did it better?

When asked about why I didn't post my photographs, I had responses prepared. I confidently explained that I enjoyed taking photographs more than editing. That photography helped me slow down, focus on the present, and clear my mind. All of that was true, and still is. However, I also said that editing took too long, pulled me out of that meditative state, and that photography was something I preferred to keep just for myself.

On the surface, those explanations sound reasonable and relatable. But in reality, they were sophisticated excuses that helped me avoid finishing work and putting it out into the world.

A Breakthrough

Fast forward to November 2025.

I am travelling through Asia on a career break, taking time to slow down, reflect, and return to things I enjoy but rarely have time for. Every day, without exception, I have my camera with me, I am photographing constantly and accumulating thousands of images. Added to the thousands of unedited and unshared photographs from previous years, they sit quietly on my hard drive, waiting. I enjoy revisiting them. As I scroll through, I am reminded of moments that still carry weight: portraits with depth, scenes with a sense of place, images tied to strong and lasting memories. The stories are there. They always were.

One evening in India, I am downloading images from my camera onto my MacBook and casually begin editing a few of them. Before long, I recognise the familiar pattern returning. I start second-guessing decisions, imagining alternatives, and comparing what is on my screen to what I have seen elsewhere. Again, I am reminded of the infinite possible directions, and the process becomes overwhelming. I minimise the software and put a film on instead.

But I cannot concentrate. The tension between wanting to share my photographs and the fear of comparison and inadequacy is in full force. It's impossible to ignore so I pack my laptop and camera away and go out for a walk.

As I walk, I start thinking about how to overcome this internal conflict. Naturally, my first instinct is to think back to the work I have been most proud of. But when coming from a place of low confidence, it's hard to use your own work as a starting point.

I sit down and watch the world go by.

After some time passes, I start thinking about exhibitions I have visited and work I have seen online. Honestly, I didn't love most of it (I mean, who loves every post they see on Instagram), but specific images really stood out – for me. I reflected on some of the photography Facebook groups I was in and why I left. There were images showered in likes and comments, contrasted with some excellent images that didn't seem to get any attention. Many of the comments addressed imperfections in the edit or the shot, or how the commenter would have taken or edited the photo. On the surface, particularly when you lacked confidence and were reading the words from these confident commentators, this seemed like constructive criticism. Yet over time, whilst they were technically correct, it didn't, at least for me, invalidate the photographers' initial choices in many cases. They were just different choices.

And then it hit me.

What does a 'perfect' photograph look like? If I were to ask what that 'standard' would look like, there could be some common themes, but I bet it would be different for every photographer you asked. But if such a standard existed, surely it would have been discovered by now, and opinion would be widely consistent? Yet no such universal standard exists, which is evidenced by the variable public opinions.

So if no standard exists, what was I measuring myself against? I expect I was measuring my work against an imagined average, an aggregate of what everyone else seemed to be doing and responding to. As if creative work could be plotted neatly on a bell curve, with safety and success sitting somewhere in the middle.

Above: Illustration of a typical bell curve, used here as a conceptual metaphor for an imagined “average” in creative work.

But that way of thinking strips creativity of the very thing that gives it value. The choices we make in the creative process are not neutral. They are expressions of who we are, what we notice, what we value, and how we think. What we include, what we leave out, and where we place emphasis, all say something about how we as individuals see the world. That is where uniqueness comes from.

Trying to regress towards an average might make work more familiar, or more popular. But it also risks smoothing away the differences that make it recognisable as yours. The centre of the curve is crowded. Work that aims to sit there often disappears into it.

A New Finish Line

That led to the second, and more practical, realisation. The problem was never that I could not reach a standard. It was that I was chasing one that did not meaningfully exist.

"Good enough" is not a benchmark to be met. It is a state to be reached.

The work is finished when it has said what it needed to say.

For me, this has become the finishing line. Does this photograph express what caught my attention? Does it reflect how I experienced the moment? If the answer is yes, then the work is done. Not because it is perfect, but because it is complete.

That shift has been freeing, and as a result, I have the confidence to create and share more. Not because my work has suddenly improved, but because I am no longer trying to make it sit comfortably within an imagined average. Whether it stands out for being strong or imperfect no longer feels like the point. In either case, it is an honest reflection of me, shaped by the choices I made along the way, and an expression of the story that I wanted to tell.

And that, I have realised, is enough.