Letting Go of “Perfect”
As the initial excitement and rush of the new school year transitions into the reality of the day-to-day, energy tends to drop while frustration may soar. Here’s my invitation to you as you continue to serve and support your students this year: Let go of “perfect.”
Perhaps I’m the only educator who struggles with this, but I doubt it. After all, you became a teacher for one or more of the following reasons:
You want to help;
You want to nurture young minds into agile thinkers;
You care deeply about kids and our future; and/or
You love the art and science of teaching and the joy of teaching your content area/grade.
No matter the individual reason you became an educator, we all have one universal trait in common: we became educators because we have big hearts and we care–about kids, about our communities, about the things we teach.
And when we care so deeply about kids and their success–and their joy–the stakes feel really high. So we push ourselves; we strive to be perfect. We spend hours planning, prepping, and setting up perfect learning experiences. We come early, stay late, and spend our own money on our students and classrooms. We try to do and carry it all. It's easy to think that’s what we’re supposed to do. After all, we just want things to be perfect because we care.
But here’s the thing: Perfect doesn't exist. You can do everything in your power to make a perfect experience for your learners, but something will inevitably throw off "perfect.” In my years as an English teacher, here are just a few of my “perfect” teaching experiences:
I spent hours creating a back-to-school orientation, stations that would allow students to move around the room to review all the syllabus information, tasks that required them to use all of the primary tech tools they’d use throughout the semester, and hands-on activities that prepared them for some of the “weirder” teaching strategies they’d encounter in my room. My vision meant that in the first few days of class, I’d be able to talk with each student individually and get to know them a little. The first day of school arrives, everything is set up, I am so excited for this perfect start to the year and… the wifi is down. There’s only one station we can do.
My first year teaching, I wrote extremely detailed lesson plans, complete with “scripted” questions that checked all of Bloom’s boxes: remember which character did what, understand the complexity of the conflict, apply the theme to your own life, and on up the pyramid. American Lit, first period, deep into discussion, I ask my penultimate “analyze and evaluate” question (which was so “amazing,” I have of course forgotten it). Slowly, a hand in the back slides up. This boy has never spoken in class. I hear the angel choir singing as I do a mental dance of joy because I have reached him! “Yes? So-and-So, what do you think?” His dark eyes connect with mine as he quietly says, “Ma’am, you have hay in your hair.” I lived on a farm at the time and fed the sheep that morning. This is well into the class period. No one has been paying attention to any of my perfectly constructed questions; they've all been staring at the gob of hay, undoubtedly bouncing as I spoke.
Mid-activity, a student raises their hand, “Miss, there’s a dead rat.” I was teaching theatre in Istanbul and one of the myriad campus cats had left us a present. On the bleachers of our black-box theatre. Where the class sits. Class paused while I contacted… whoever it is that takes care of dead rats in your classroom. Focus was hard to get back. My perfect plan–futile.
Stuff happens. Celebrations and loss happen. Fire drills and guest speakers happen. Supplies disappear and rats appear. Stuff happens, and usually at the worst possible time. So let go of the idea of “perfect” now and practice the fine art of rolling with it.
Why We Need to Let Go of Perfect
Spontaneous disruptions and the guarantee of uncertainty–in life as well as teaching–are certainly reason enough; however, far more pernicious factors drive my goal to let go of “perfect.”
First, without intending to, our quest for “perfect” creates a more stressful environment for students and limits the creation of meaningful, authentic relationships. If perfect is the standard, how can students possibly fail? If they see us never quite satisfied, see us fretting over every detail, how can they try and risk the possibility of messing up? How can they take risks? After all, their work might not be “perfect.”
This unintended side effect creeps into classrooms, creating undue stress on our students. As educators, we must model what we hope to nurture in our students. I remember the first time I taught literary lenses to a group of seniors. In my quest to be “perfect,” I was so academically obtuse that no one grasped what I was talking about. The next day I told the class, “I don’t think I did a very good job of explaining those lenses yesterday. I’d like to try again, ok?”
27 heads nodded, shoulders shrugged, and I tried again. This time, I started by saying, “This is new for me, so I’m learning it with you. Let’s figure this out.” And we talked about the different lenses. I asked questions; they asked questions. We figured it out together. By being vulnerable and imperfect, I connected with this group of seniors in a way I had not in the first weeks of class.
We must show students that some tasks are about being messy and testing ideas and getting it wrong so we can find a better way to get it right, like figuring out the different literary lenses. Other tasks require more patience, more precision and will have higher expectations. But even when we expect students to share what they know to the best of their ability, “perfect” does not appear on any rubric–in part because it’s impossibly subjective and in part because it’s simply impossible. Instead, let’s model attainable goals, personal growth, and the joy of learning.
Second, as much as our quest for “perfect” may have unintended consequences on our students, “perfect” as a standard also leads to unnecessary and at times unhealthy competition and isolation amongst teachers. This surprised new-teacher me, the idea that my teaching successes might be a threat to other educators. Yet I could feel the bristling if I was too excited about something I was doing; I could hear the slight sucking of air if I was daring to try something new.
Moreover, in my singular focus on being the best teacher I could be, on being “perfect,” I frequently failed to ask for help. My struggles couldn’t be exposed because what would that say about me? Somehow, with that messed up idea, I was supposed to be helping students develop a growth mindset. Luckily, I’ve been fortunate to teach at five schools with simply amazing colleagues, educators who reached out to support me despite my attempts to isolate myself behind a wall of “perfect.” The veteran teacher who made me come to lunch with her because I never left my classroom; the many teachers who shared and supported and offered simple words of encouragement. Thank you doesn’t feel sufficient for what they did for me.
I’ve also been fortunate to learn some tough lessons. As I tried to present myself as worthy of being in the room, worthy of having an opinion, my desire to be “perfect” often came across as arrogance and judgment. During a discussion of possible literature circle books with colleagues, I shared two titles. Both books had won the Pulitzer Prize, a fact I noted as I recommended them. In my head, this fact helped add validity to the recommendation, as it indicated that other people thought highly of the book. Since I was new, I felt pressure to show the team of very experienced educators that I, too, had some expertise. However, my noting the books were Pulitzer Prize winners was interpreted by the other teachers as me mocking them. It came across as if I was saying, “You don’t know this book?!? It won the Pulitzer Prize! Where have you been???”
In my desperation to be seen as good enough–“perfect”–I stomped on the feelings of my colleagues, perhaps squashing their desire to be “perfect.” I don’t know. I do know that that meeting was a rocky start to my time at that school and I still dream of a redo. I’d let go of “perfect,” ask more questions, listen more, and share differently.
Equally unexpected were my own feelings of guilt and even shame at times when my classroom wasn’t “cute” enough, my lessons not always “fun” enough. It felt like I was back in high school, not just teaching high school, locked in a race to be the favorite. To be “perfect.”
Luckily, time is a great teacher and the longer I taught, the less those things mattered to me. But I wish someone had prepared me for those potential feelings before I entered a classroom so I knew they were normal but also unnecessary–and certainly unhelpful.
On top of all of that, the external pressure from society, the unrealistic expectations that have been thrust upon teachers, and the ever-expanding list of responsibilities exacerbate the pressure to be “perfect.” More specifically, it feels like teachers can’t make any mistakes right now. Can’t misspeak. Can’t try something new. Parents and legislators and social media are ready to shout out any misstep, blow up any stumble, and criticize anything that is different.
At least that’s how it feels. And when it feels like we don’t have the support of the communities we serve, it’s easy to lose sight of the reason(s) we became teachers. When we do, the weight of “perfect” further squashes the inherent joy of teaching and learning.
But the joy is still there.
Instead of “Perfect,” Hold on to Purpose
Go back to the list I shared (above) about why people become teachers. What’s your why? What is your purpose? Take the time to write it down.
Here’s mine: My purpose is to support all teachers as joyful catalysts for change, helping them to be the best versions of themselves so they can serve and support their students.
I make mistakes. I get things wrong. Sometimes things that felt amazing in my head fall so flat it’s like a steamroller overtook my workshop. And oh my goodness–the typos and spelling mistakes that have escaped my eye in some emails… yikes! So we grow. We try again.
The fact that you want it to be perfect, the fact that you care so much about creating great learning experiences for your students, ultimately that is all that matters. You care. You care about them, about their success, about their joy–and that is so much more important than having the perfectly cute room, the perfectly executed lesson, or the perfect whatever. Let students see that you care in how you model imperfection, in how you keep trying new things and rolling with challenges and failures, in how you get to know them as individuals and celebrate them, imperfections and all.
By letting go of “perfect” and instead rooting yourself in purpose, you will also open yourself to more opportunities–to let students take the lead in class, to tap into the expertise of your colleagues, to ask for help and collaborate on ideas.
So keep caring. Let your purpose as an educator rekindle your love for your work. Let the unique joy of learning refuel your ability to care. But let go of “perfect.” It’s lying to you. Because you’re already exactly the “perfect” they need.
Darcy is a change consultant and co-founder of The Educators' Lab. After more than a decade in the classroom teaching English and theatre, Darcy now creates the type of PD she always wanted, driving change in education and empowering teachers as changemakers. Through her work, teachers reconnect with their purpose, rekindle their spark for teaching, and reignite the JOY of teaching and learning.