Your best isn’t good enough

Chasing quality only makes it harder to catch

“Read, but don't just read. Read the best book you can find. Write, but don't just write. Write the best idea you can conceive.” — James Clear

Sounds inspirational, doesn’t it? It’s terrible advice, though—at least for people like me.

For years, my whole life was about chasing this idea of ‘best.’ I wanted to optimize everything—from finding the perfect career path to choosing the absolute best brand of toothpaste. I convinced myself that this relentless pursuit was the key to living a successful, meaningful life.

But all it really did was paralyze me. Every time I had an impulse to start something, I’d end up overthinking, tweaking, and refining until eventually nothing came of the original idea.

It wasn’t until I made one simple (but not so obvious) shift that everything changed.

Perfectionism paralyzes

The pursuit of perfection causes us to freeze before we start.

For years, I wanted to write regularly—really wanted to.

I’ve always seen writing as a fundamental skill—not just for self-expression, but for making sense of my own thoughts. It felt like a key to understanding myself and the world around me.

I had so many ideas I wanted to dive into, and I dreamed of building a growing collection of essays—something I could point to as a record of my thinking, something I’d be proud to show my kids one day.

But every time I tried to start, that voice in my head insisted on perfection, and I froze. As soon as I wrote down one sentence, reading it back and cringing was enough to make me drop my pen (or, more accurately, brush aside my keyboard) and start intensely browsing YouTube.

I was 40 when I finally joined my first writing course, aptly named Write of Passage (WoP).

Maybe it was because I was in a better headspace, maybe my perfectionism had loosened its grip a bit, or maybe the course community just spoke my language. Either way, it felt like the right time to get serious and actually do something.

A perfect setup, but still not perfect enough

I had everything I needed to finally make writing happen—resources, support, and plenty of encouragement. The course was designed to make it almost foolproof: five weeks, five essays, with the whole writing cycle—from idea development to feedback to editing—laid out step-by-step.

But despite all that…

I was still stuck. Even with everything perfectly set up, I couldn’t shake old habits. I still found myself tinkering endlessly, slaving over the same sentences, and trying to polish them to perfection. Just because you have a plan doesn’t mean the critical voice goes quiet. James Clear’s advice was living rent-free in my head.

In the end, I managed to publish three pieces, but I felt deeply unsatisfied with each one. When the cohort ended, so did my writing. I quit. For the next six months, I didn’t write a single word.

I’d sit at my computer, staring wistfully at unfinished drafts, convincing myself they were ‘almost there.’ But they weren’t. They were stuck because I was stuck.

I wasn’t the only one caught in this trap. Apparently, perfectionism spreads—at least, that’s what it feels like.

As a mentor in later WoP cohorts, I saw the same pattern in other students over and over. One cohort even ramped up the focus on ‘quality,’ and the results were predictable: overthinking, procrastination, and a complete loss of momentum. I remember one student who spent all five weeks discussing his essay ideas but never managed to write a single word. It wasn’t for lack of trying—he just couldn’t shake the pressure of his own high standards.

A perfect plan

When I joined WoP again after feeling defeated the first time, I knew I needed a better plan. And that meant getting brutally honest with myself: my obsession with creating perfect outcomes had to go.

The shift I made was simple (though not exactly easy after years of chasing ‘perfect’): I decided to focus on quantity over quality. Instead of trying to craft the perfect piece, I aimed to publish something, anything—even if it wasn’t polished or up to my standards.

It worked.

My endless struggles in the first cohort had shown me that getting out of my own way meant embracing the rough edges. The hyper-critical voice in my head was still there (and let’s be honest, probably always will be), but this time, I could nod at it, thank it for its input, and still make my own choice.

I even created a ‘cutting room floor’ document, where I dumped all the leftover bits and 'killed darlings'—the stuff that didn’t make the cut. It was my way of accepting that sometimes the crap has to come out before anything good shows up.

One of the best examples of this shift in action is the story from Art & Fear—the one James Clear, ironically, mentions in Atomic Habits. A photography professor divided his class into two groups: one focused on producing as many photos as possible, while the other aimed to capture a single perfect image. And, just as you might guess, by the end of the semester, it was the quantity group that took the best-quality photos. They kept trying, learning, and improving, while the ‘quality’ group mostly theorized about what their perfect shot might be.

This isn’t just a story about photography—it’s a story about how we all get stuck, whether we’re perfectionists or not. As writers, students, or anyone trying to learn something new, we often fall into the same trap. We think that achieving perfection will finally prove we’re ‘good enough,’ but it’s the pursuit itself that keeps us paralyzed. It’s why I spent six months staring at unfinished drafts, frozen by the pressure to get it right.

The best, highest-quality outcomes don’t come from aiming for perfection; they come from trying, learning, and iterating over time.

It’s not about getting it right; it’s about getting started.

Release the pressure

Whatever field you are currently stuck in, double-check if you’re unconsciously putting pressure on yourself by aiming for quality. If you do, realize you can choose other paths. You can play by other rules, rules you set up yourself.

• Choose quantity. Every time you are building some form of output, make several attempts instead of endlessly scrutinizing over just one. Deliver multiple sketches to yourself and go from there. Like the students who took tons of photos instead of focusing on one ‘masterpiece’ (and seriously, stop thinking in terms like ‘masterpiece’).

• Get into a flow. Don't make edits at first, only allow brain dumps. If you're writing, that means ignoring the backspace key. Separate creation from refinement—these are two separate processes with corresponding mindsets. For those who feel adventurous (or just need a serious nudge), check out the most dangerous writing app—it deletes everything if you stop writing.

• Make other people part of your process. Instead of looping your thoughts around and around, break the cycle and ask other people for feedback or my favorite, a conversation. Let them ask you questions. Why does this matter to you? Where are you trying to go with this anyway? Thinking out loud and getting it out of your head always helps.

So, what do you think of this essay? High-quality? Perfect even?

Actually, don’t tell me—I’m not interested. If I’d aimed for perfect, you wouldn’t be reading it at all.