Midwives and Crocodiles.

On perfectionism and procrastination.

Artist unknown.

This week I went to the community midwifery group practice to chat about perinatal mental health. 

I was nervous. 

I've had wonderful personal experiences with this group through my three births and deeply respect the work midwives do. Particularly in a small town, with the tricky dynamics of continuity of care, broad clinical complexity, and staffing pressures that would bring most of us to our knees.

I really wanted to smash it out of the park.

I wanted all the stats, all the points to hit, to come across as an intelligent counsellor who knew what she was talking about. My intelligence… or rather, what I have historically perceived as a severe lack of it, has been a main insecurity for a very long time. I put it down to going through school and university with undiagnosed ADHD!

So my plan was to prepare, prepare, prepare.

What I noticed instead was that the sheer pressure I was putting on myself to smash it was becoming so overwhelming that in my allotted prep time, I was doing anything but.

Classic.

In an attempt to avoid the feelings of perceived failure (of coming across as unintelligent to a group of women I genuinely respect) I did nothing. And here is the cruel irony at the heart of perfectionism: a trait we often try to reframe as evidence of our drive and dedication has procrastination baked right into it.

The standard is so high we can't begin. So we don't.

It lives in the body

We're often told perfectionism is a mindset issue. A believe-so-you-achieve situation. But for me, at least, perfectionism and the feeling of being an impostor have a bodily expression that no amount of positive self-talk has ever fully reached.

It's the flush of shame across my cheeks and chest when I suspect someone is about to find out I'm not supposed to be here. It's my internal critic- and I'll quote her directly- telling me I'm "an ugly dumb-dumb." It's the full activation of my sympathetic nervous system when I want to quit and bolt from the perceived threat, as if speaking at a midwifery group is the same as being chased by a crocodile.

There is something quietly ironic about the fact that the body is not only the site where perfectionism lives, but also one of the greatest examples we have of ourselves not being perfect.

It's bigger than a mindset issue.

Women applying for promotions will typically do so only when they meet 100% of the position criteria. Men, on average, will back themselves at 50%. Women have spent decades clawing validity in the workforce since second-wave feminism opened up visions of life beyond the home.

And yet- this has done almost nothing to close the impostor syndrome gap. Research across more than 40,000 participants and four decades of studies shows that women consistently experience impostor phenomenon in greater numbers and with greater intensity than men. That gap hasn't narrowed. Not even a little.

Which tells us something important: impostor syndrome doesn't have much to do with how much women are actually achieving. It runs deeper than achievement. For women of colour, it runs deeper still. The experience of impostor syndrome is compounded by navigating white-dominated structures that were never built with them in mind. That's not a mindset problem. That's a structural one.

Social media doesn't help. It's a carefully curated mecca for shame-fuelled comparison. Not just around body image, but around the performative versions of motherhood that social discourse holds up as the standard. The perfect mother bakes. She is present and calm. She documents it beautifully. She does not feel like a crocodile is chasing her.

Perfectionism becomes the mask we hide behind, hoping that if we appear to have our shit together, nobody will notice we are barely surviving. This is exactly why mothers often tell me that after leaving mothers group, something we know is one of the most important protective factors for this demographic, a genuine buffer against isolation, they find themselves feeling lonelier than before. They performed connection. And likely, some of the others were, too. Masks meeting masks, missing out on authenticity.

So what do we do with this?

Not fix it overnight. But perhaps start to notice it differently.

Perfectionism, as researcher Brené Brown describes it, isn't really about high standards: it's a shame-based strategy. A way of trying to outrun the fear that if people see us clearly, they won't find us enough. Self-compassion is the antidote, not as a feel-good platitude, but as a genuine practice of meeting yourself the way you'd meet a friend.

A few things that actually help:

Name it when it arrives. When you catch the spiral, the over-preparing that becomes not preparing at all, the email you've rewritten four times, try saying to yourself: this is the perfectionism. This is my nervous system doing what it learned to do. That small act of naming creates a little space between you and the pull of it.

Ask whose standard this is. Somewhere beneath most perfectionist rules is an inherited belief. From a parent, a school, a culture that told you your worth was conditional on your output. Is this standard actually yours? Is it helpful? Would you hold your closest friend to it?

Move from rigid rules to values-based intentions. Instead of "I must come across as completely competent," try "I want to show up with care and share what I know." The second one leaves room for you to be flawlessly flawed.

Notice when good enough is, in fact, enough. Perfectionism is sustained by the prediction that if you're not perfect, something bad will happen. Start tracking the evidence. The email you sent without the fourth revision, did it land fine? The day you didn't do it all, did the world end? Your nervous system needs data to update its threat model.

Rest doesn't need to be earned. This one is easier said than done. You are allowed to stop without producing something first.

I did eventually show up to MGP. I shared what I knew, imperfectly, and the conversation was warm and real and useful. Nobody found out I was an ugly dumb-dumb.

The crocodile, as it turned out, was never there.

If any of this resonates and you'd like to explore it further in a supportive space, I work with adults navigating anxiety, perfectionism, and the many transitions of early parenthood. You're welcome to get in touch.