Waiting for perfection

Perfectionism is one of the most sophisticated forms of procrastination. Waiting for the right moment to act, or postponing action until reaching a certain level of development or skill in any field of endeavor, becomes a self-imposed trap that is incredibly difficult to overcome.

Like the best prisons, perfectionism disguises itself as freedom. It is much harder to escape when we do not realize we are trapped. Beneath an avalanche of information in the form of courses, masterclasses, workshops, or whatever methods are aimed at self-improvement, we sometimes spend so much time studying the physics of flight that we postpone flying altogether.

Preparation and improvement are crucial. Growth demands preparation, dedication, and study. But it also demands practice. Beginnings. It requires successes and failures — because only through failure do we develop our own ways of fixing things. It is no coincidence that the people who provide the tools that allow growth in our fields are those who have already walked this path countless times, refining their abilities along the way.

I will bring an anecdotal example, one that involves both a personal and literal path.

In 2014, I suffered an accident that resulted in the rupture of three tendons in my right foot — something moderately serious, but usually treatable with a well-performed emergency surgery and a few months of physical therapy.

The problem was that I saw two different doctors, and neither of them identified the torn tendons. The wound was stitched shut, and the true extent of the injury was only discovered about two weeks later.

At that point, the situation reached an entirely different level of severity.

Tendons, as the name itself suggests, function through tension. In this case, they are what make it possible to move the toes. Once ruptured, each end of the tendons — previously whole — begins to atrophy, losing strength and functionality. Because of the delayed diagnosis, by the time a third doctor finally rushed me into surgery, the success of the procedure was no longer guaranteed. There was a possibility that I would never walk normally again, and that I might need crutches for the rest of my life.

It is curious how we often only value what we have when we are close to losing it. The ability to walk, for those who possess it, is treated as something given — much like any other bodily function that happens to be working properly.

Shortly before the accident, I had watched the film The Way, a story based on real events. A young man decides to walk the legendary Camino de Santiago, traveling from southern France into Spain. During the crossing of the Pyrenees, he gets lost and cannot find the trail, which ultimately leads to his death. His body is found a few days later. His father, a skeptical ophthalmologist living in the United States, flies there to identify the body. Overcome by grief and moved by his son’s determination, the father decides to complete the Camino in his son’s place, scattering his ashes along the journey.

For some reason, on the night I was hospitalized for surgery, that story came back powerfully to my mind. Right there, I decided that if I ever walked again, I would walk the Camino de Santiago.

Two years later, there I was — alone, crossing the Pyrenees. On my right foot, there remained only a scar and the inability to fully perform certain toe movements. Nothing that prevented me from walking.

The point is: I thought I had prepared myself to walk the 800 kilometers of the route.

I bought a large backpack and a pair of comfortable shoes, wore anti-blister socks (which prevented absolutely no blisters), trained with walks and runs for months, watched videos, read personal accounts, and listened to interviews with people who had already gone through the experience.

The truth is that nothing prepares you for the Camino except the Camino itself.

The ideal backpack weight, the pace that suits your physical condition, meal breaks, the right time to begin and end each day’s walk, strategies according to the climate of each region. The ways to try to prevent injuries (and how to care for them when, inevitably, they appear) and, in my case, the ways to deal with a surgically repaired foot that was, until then, fine — but not fine enough to withstand thirty-kilometer walks every day for weeks without consequences.

You can study all of this (and ideally, you should). But you only learn how to walk while walking.

There is a phrase every pilgrim learns that captures this perfectly:

“Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar.”

The pursuit of excellence has many positive aspects. We will never be perfect, but aiming for such a standard and working toward it allows us to learn, grow, and evolve little by little.

The problem begins when this pursuit becomes a silent trap — a sophisticated form of procrastination that prevents us from starting and learning along the way.

If we wait for the perfect moment, we will die waiting.

On the Camino, I made countless mistakes — to the point of dropping my water canteen and watching it roll down a hillside immediately after the effort of climbing it. If I were to walk the Camino again, I would certainly change many things — and still make other mistakes. But I would make different mistakes.

I was only able to finish the Camino because I began the Camino, with all the mistakes inherent to an inexperienced pilgrim.

The doubt of “what could have been” feels more comfortable than the rawness of reality because we have no idea what we are missing out on. But we are missing out.

At some point, we are all inexperienced pilgrims — and there is nothing comfortable about that. When life is interesting, we become inexperienced pilgrims many times over. That cannot stop us from beginning to walk new paths.

Recalibrating routes. Redistributing the weight of the backpack. Caring for the wounds.

One step at a time.

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