“Every Friday night I cook for family and friends. Everyone praises me for being a superb cook—but honestly? Preparing these dinners drains me.” Dana confessed as she settled into the recliner.
“I race all day just to be ready five minutes before the guests arrive. I’ve been cooking for two days straight, and by the end of the evening, I still force myself to do the dishes and clean the kitchen. My friends can leave the mess until morning. They ‘wing it.’ But not me. I make four meat dishes, twenty salads, five desserts, fresh-baked buns, and cookies. Everything from scratch.”
“Wow,” I thought. “I’m coming for dinner!”
Jokes aside, I knew Dana was haunted by a part of her that demanded nothing less than perfection.
Jokes aside, I knew Dana was haunted by a part of her that demanded nothing less than perfection.
We all have parts—sub-personalities we created to survive at some point in our lives.
- A kid bullied at school may become the funny one to be liked.
- A sensitive boy mocked for crying may toughen up and act cruel to hide vulnerability.
- A girl who’s been violated may adopt a seductive persona to reclaim power.
- A child starved of love may grow into a “lone wolf,” pretending not to need anyone.
Dana’s “perfectionist part” was simply another survival strategy.
I asked her to close her eyes, breathe deeply, and fully relax. I explained she had two opposing parts, and we’d invite each one to speak, one at a time.
First, we called upon the part that demanded perfection.
“What should we call it?” I asked.
Without hesitation, she answered with authority: “The Commander.”
“What should we call it?” I asked.
Without hesitation, she answered with authority: “The Commander.”
The Commander had been born when Dana was 18. Its mission? Make her a “good” wife, a great mom, an exceptional host—someone everyone would admire. It believed perfection kept her loved, and therefore safe.
Next, we invited the other part—the one urging her to rest, slow down, and drop the impossible standards. Dana’s voice softened as she said, “This is Sam.” Sam wanted her to love herself, put her needs first, and protect her health. In fact, when Dana overextended herself, Sam would stir up stomach trouble to force her to stop.
We began a gentle negotiation. After an hour of dialogue, we found the common ground: both parts wanted what was best for Dana—they just had different strategies.
The Commander agreed to transform into “The Manager”—a supportive planner rather than a drill sergeant. Sam would set the pace and priorities, while The Manager ensured things still got done without impossible pressure.
Two weeks later, Dana texted me a photo of meatballs.
“You see how imperfect these are?” she wrote. (To me, they looked pretty identical!) “The old me would have spent twenty minutes making them perfect. Today, I spent five minutes. Their uneven shapes don’t bother me. I even took a lunch break. I finished cooking an hour before guests arrived, enjoyed the evening, and still had the energy to do the dishes afterward!”
“You see how imperfect these are?” she wrote. (To me, they looked pretty identical!) “The old me would have spent twenty minutes making them perfect. Today, I spent five minutes. Their uneven shapes don’t bother me. I even took a lunch break. I finished cooking an hour before guests arrived, enjoyed the evening, and still had the energy to do the dishes afterward!”
Sometimes healing doesn’t look like fireworks—it looks like uneven meatballs and a peaceful heart.
