The Weight of Perfect and the Release
It’s a funny thing, the pressure. Not the kind you feel when you’re running late for something, or when your dad’s trying to make you listen to country radio...
It’s a funny thing, the pressure. Not the kind you feel when you’re running late for something, or when your dad’s trying to make you listen to country radio. It’s a different kind of weight, one that settles not on your shoulders, but somewhere deeper, a constant hum of anxiety just beneath the surface. It used to be school. Getting the A, writing the perfect essay, earning the praise. Then it became the blog.
I remember the way I used to obsess over every sentence, every paragraph. Rewriting, deleting, rewriting again until my fingers cramped and my eyes blurred. It wasn't about the writing itself; it was about the *result*. The clicks, the comments, the validation that I was doing it *right*. Like there was a definitive “right” way to write about music, especially when you’re writing from a town where music feels like a rumor, a thing you read about in magazines rather than a pulse in the air. It’s exhausting, honestly, trying to manufacture something flawless.
The Phoebe Bridgers show was… a turning point, I guess. Not in a dramatic, everything-changed kind of way, but subtly. Seeing those two hundred people on Tumblr who reblogged a piece I’d written about Elliott Smith. Two hundred people I’d never met, living lives I couldn’t imagine, connecting with something I’d written in my bedroom. It made me realize that the effort, the agonizing over every word, felt… wrong. Like I was missing the point.
The frustration always came later. A simmering resentment towards myself for not being *enough*. For not writing something groundbreaking, something worthy of those two hundred reblogs, something that would prove… what, exactly? That I deserved to be heard? It’s a stupid question. Like being heard is something you *earn*. And the anger wasn't always outward, directed at teachers or classmates or even my dad’s endless recommendations for classic rock albums. It was inward. A slow burn against my own perceived failures.
My mom always tried, she really did. "You're doing great, honey," she'd say, a small, tentative smile on her face. But it felt distant, like she was supporting something she didn’t quite *get*. And I understand that, I really do. It’s hard to understand someone’s passion when it doesn't neatly fit into a box you can comprehend. And maybe, maybe that’s part of the problem. The need to box things, to label them, to make them conform to a standard of perfection.
There’s a strange kind of performance involved in all of this, isn't there? The constant striving to project an image of competence, of control. It's easier than letting people see the messy, imperfect parts. The parts that doubt, that stumble, that sometimes feel utterly lost. It’s a defense mechanism, I think. A way to shield yourself from criticism, even if that criticism is only the internal kind.
National was a similar feeling. The sheer scale of the concert, the noise, the lights...it was overwhelming. Afterward, I felt… something like relief, mixed with a strange hollowness. I’d held myself to such a high standard, expecting the experience to be *perfect*, to somehow solidify my place in the world of music. And it wasn’t. It was just a concert. A really loud, really amazing concert, but still just… a concert.
Maybe it's about learning to accept the mess. To see the beauty in the imperfections. To write not for the validation of others, but for the quiet satisfaction of putting words on a page. To let the frustration simmer, acknowledge it, and then let it go. It’s a process, I know. A slow, ongoing process. And I’m probably still going to rewrite that paragraph five times before I’m truly happy with it. But at least now, I understand *why*.
