Once Upon a Time, I Gave a Lot of Shits
I used to be a perfectionist. Not the casual kind, either. We’re talking full-blown, hair-slicked-back, colour-coded-filing-system perfectionist. I had OCD, and let me tell you, that made for a deeply committed relationship with completion. I wasn’t just tidying my sock drawer, I was folding each sock like it was going to be inspected by a museum curator. Time wasn’t just a construct, it was a god. I’d show up ten minutes early or spiral into a pit of personal shame. And don’t even get me started on The Sims 3. I didn’t just play. I maxed every skill, filled every aspiration, and glitched the game into oblivion trying to complete every single bloody thing. That was me. That was how I coped. How I made sense of the world.
Perfection made me feel safe. If everything looked perfect, then maybe I could finally feel okay. If I could just control my environment, my schedule, my outcomes, then maybe I’d finally silence the part of me that was always on edge. So I worked hard. Too hard. All the time. My worth? Tied to output. My joy? Tied to how well I could perform at life. I put pressure on myself like it was my full-time job. No cracks. No mess. No half-finished projects allowed. I was all in, all the time, even when it was costing me sleep, peace, and basic human happiness.
And then I broke. Again. Because, surprise surprise, perfectionism doesn’t come with health insurance. There’s no emotional warranty. You keep going until the wheels fall off and then wonder why your body hurts and your brain’s short-circuiting every time someone asks you to do a simple task. So last year, in the middle of what I lovingly refer to as My Seasonal Breakdown (Volume 7), I finally just… stopped. I stopped pretending I could keep it all together. I stopped trying to do it all. And in that messy, wonky, half-arsed surrender, something truly magical happened.
Enter: The Low Power Mode Era
The moment I let go of the perfectionist pressure cooker, I entered my Chaos Goblin Era. No longer was I folding my towels into thirds. I was now the girl who flung them over the chair and called it a design choice. I started doing things half-arsed, not because I didn’t care, but because I finally realised I didn’t have to earn rest. I didn’t need to complete the entire to-do list in order to be worthy of a break. I could do a little, then stop. I could do a lot, then leave the rest. It wasn’t lazy. It was life-saving.
Doing things half-arsed didn’t mean giving up. It meant giving myself permission to try without fear of failure. It meant writing a blog post without obsessing over the header image. Cooking dinner without crying because I forgot one ingredient. Washing my hair and letting it air-dry into a frizz ball instead of battling it into submission. It meant choosing done over perfect. Choosing effort over burnout. Choosing joy over impressing people who weren’t even paying attention in the first place.
And you know what? I rock messy hair. I rock it like I invented it. My buns are lopsided and my eyeliner never matches but I am living. I laugh more now. I rest more. My home isn’t Pinterest-perfect but it smells like toast and sandalwood and that’s good enough for me. Life didn’t fall apart when I stopped trying so hard. In fact, it came together in a way that finally felt like mine.
The Gospel of Good Enough
I used to think being good enough meant settling. Like if I accepted “good enough,” I was letting go of my dreams, or admitting defeat. But the truth is, “good enough” is a radical act of self-compassion. It’s choosing to be kind to yourself in a world that profits from your insecurity. It’s saying, “Hey, I’m not a machine, and I don’t need to be.”
Now I aim for good enough in almost everything. Cleaning? Good enough. I’ll wipe down the bench and ignore the dust on the skirting boards. It’s not a feature wall. It’s ambience. Work projects? Good enough. My best thinking doesn’t come from staring at a spreadsheet until my eyes bleed. It comes from movement, fresh air, and tea breaks. Exercise? I used to kill myself with high intensity Hot Girl Walks. Now I dance badly in my living room and call it cardio. Good enough is not giving up. It’s giving in to a slower, gentler pace.
Because here’s the real secret: when you stop trying to be perfect, you actually get more done. You stop procrastinating. You stop freezing. You stop quitting before you’ve even started. Suddenly, that half-finished painting becomes a finished painting. That scrappy first draft becomes a blog post. That phone call you’ve been dreading gets made because you’re not waiting for the right moment. You’re just… doing it. Badly, maybe. But you’re doing it.
How to Half-Arse Like a Pro
Half-arsing doesn’t mean not caring. It means caring just enough to move forward without self-destruction. It’s a mindset. A rebellion against burnout culture. A way of saying, “This is all I’ve got right now, and that’s okay.” So if you’re someone who has felt stuck, frozen, overwhelmed, let me lovingly say: maybe it’s time to half-arse it.
Let’s be honest, I once used a hair straightener to iron the collar of a work blouse because I didn’t have time (or frankly, the will) to pull out the ironing board. And guess what? It looked fine. No one cared. I didn’t combust. I still got compliments. That’s the kind of chaotic brilliance I’m talking about. Half-arsing is resourceful, thank you very much.
Half-arsing is the ultimate nervous system balm. It gives you space. Space to heal, and to explore. Space to figure out what actually matters. And what matters is not whether you replied to every email*. What matters is how you feel. If you feel free. If you feel like yourself. If you’re able to breathe without holding it all in. That’s the life-changing magic. Not perfection. Not productivity. Peace.
*If it’s that important, they’ll follow up. Inbox Zero works.
Who needs gold stars when I’ve got snacks, candles, and unmatched energy in chaos?
Messy Hair, Don’t Care (But Kinda Do)
Let me leave you with this: I still care. I still love beautiful things. I still dream big and work hard and want to make something meaningful of my life. But I do it differently now. I do it with softness. I do it with humour. I do it while dancing around my flat with Lulu judging me from the windowsill. I do it with half-done laundry and half-done ideas and fully, totally, unapologetically me.
So if your life feels messy, good. If you’ve got ten tabs open and no idea where to start, good. If you need to cry, eat toast, and wear the same hoodie three days in a row, good… Cause same. But that’s the magic! That’s the good stuff. That’s where it all begins.
Here’s your permission slip to do things half-arsed. To take the pressure off. To rest. To try. To keep going. And if all else fails… just rock the messy bun. You’re doing better than you think.
We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity
If this post helped, inspired, or made you smile, you can support my work with a tea or tip over on Ko-fi. Every bit helps keep the chaos flowing.
Check Out My Other Forms
Discover more from Life & Style with Bry Jaimea
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
