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The Daunting Cycle of Perfectionism

People who have a tendency towards perfectionism may tell you that being a perfectionist drives their success. That striving for flawlessness makes them the best at what they do. And sometimes, it actually does pay off, at least in some ways. But overall, the relentless pursuit of perfection can often feel more like a heavy and unfulfilling emotional tax rather than rewarding.

This is when perfectionism crosses over from striving for excellence and instead becomes a source of stress and a feeling of inadequacy and failure.

Aiming for Excellence, Running From Fear

When perfectionism begins to backfire, your drive towards excellence may start to feel like you're running from fear (and it can often be both at the same time, however the running from fear begins to hold more power than the drive towards excellence). This type of perfectionism is often a powerful, rigid shield against things such as feeling inadequate, feeling like a failure, making a mistake, or the shame of falling short of what can be lofty expectations. In this cycle, your focus may unconsciously turn to eliminating the threat of shame, failure, and inadequacy, rather than trying to reach reasonable goals with reasonable expectations.

In a more fearful state, people can set impossible expectations for themselves, hoping to prove their worth (to themselves and others), only to find that the expectations aren't reached. This can lead to self-blame and strip away confidence (or make it hard to build confidence that was already low). When in a place where the rigidity of perfectionism is consuming you, it can be a set up so either you achieve perfection, or anything less is inadequate and not good enough. There is little to no window of flexibility for mistakes or "good enough" to exist. This can have a suffocating impact on mental health, often resulting in intense stress and pressure to do things the "right" way, which can also strongly impact relationships.

Avoidance If Perfection Is Too Daunting

When you’re stuck in this fear-driven cycle, it can be tempting to become inflexible, sometimes without even realizing it. The pressure and anxiety may continue to grow as you're striving for perfection.

This often shows up in unexpected ways. For some, it results in procrastination. After all, if you don’t start something, you can’t mess it up or fail. For others, the pressure to be perfect may show up as overworking and compulsively checking (and re-checking) every detail, which may feel productive in the moment, but over time can result in burnout. It also may show up as inflexibility with others around you when the way you do things may differ from theirs. These are all different forms of avoidance, aimed at keeping uncomfortable, unwanted feelings of doubt and inadequacy at bay as long as possible.

It may feel within yourself like you're always working hard to keep things together, and that any mistake or failure feels like you'll lose control and everything is going to fall apart. It can make anything less than perfection feel scary and catastrophic. Therefore, avoidance can be a common response to fear of failure.

The Harsh Inner Critic

One of the most destructive responses that comes with this kind of pressure is debilitating self-criticism. When you inevitably are unable to meet an arbitrary, impossibly high standard, the immediate response can often be a harsh and unrelenting internal attack. It’s a vicious cycle. Your high standards may generate fear and anxiety, and when that fear is validated (that you're not good enough), you may respond with judgment and self-blame. This only intensifies the anxiety and the pressure to do better next time—making it even harder to succeed the next time and more likely you'll end up back in the self-judgment.

What's even more complex is that, every so often, some people may reach the high mark they have set. However, it then becomes about the anxiety of sustaining that bar, and any movement away from it becomes the new failure. It can become exhausting and defeating constantly trying to meet or maintain a standard that almost sets up failure from the start. It's these setups that really need to be understood on a deeper level when working through perfectionistic tendencies.

Shame, Anxiety, Panic Attacks, and Moving Forward...

There are many reasons perfectionism can show up in people's lives. But when you're going through it, it can feel like there is no room for compassion, no room for mistakes (obviously, within reason) to be okay, and no room for good enough. There can be so much shame, guilt, anxiety, fear, tension and other feelings that uphold perfectionism—and it's often when these feelings go unacknowledged that perfectionism can take a stronger, even paralyzing hold. This can eventually turn into panic attacks, phobias, and more.

It is possible to move forward from perfectionism. Therapy is a place to be able to slow down and become more in touch with the deeper anxieties and fears that lead to the urge to be perfect, and learn how to feel safe without continuing these patterns.

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I'm new here!

Hi! I am Anna. I live in Cyprus where I found my true love and got divorced after 5 years of struggles, feeling lost, confusedy disrepect, blame shifting. I've got 2 plus 3 kids. We are a patchwork family and do co-parenting with my ex-husband. My passion, love and happiness is photography. I am working as a photographer and artist. I grew up in a emotionally abusive environment. I am close to people who are dealing with unhealthy, toxic and emotionally abuse in their relationship. My first photo exhibition is about this topic. The exhibition is interactive with games and conversation cards. Pictures are displayed with personal stories. Special guests who can provide tools and services are participated as well as info material will be provided. When I did my research I found The Mighty. If anyone wants to know more my exhibition or wants to support my project, please get in touch with me. All the best, Anna

#MightyTogether

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A Love-Hate Relationship with Mondays

Mondays always seem to hit the hardest. The weekend fades too quickly, and suddenly the weight of another week settles in. The alarm feels louder, the air heavier, and motivation harder to find. Mondays have a way of reminding how exhausting life can be, how routines can feel endless, and how much effort it takes just to get started again.

But even with all that frustration, there’s one thing that makes Mondays bearable—counseling. It’s the one part of the day that feels like a lifeline, a space to breathe and untangle everything that builds up inside. Knowing there’s a place to talk, to be heard, and to work through the chaos makes the start of the week a little less painful. It’s not easy, but it’s necessary.

So even though Mondays will probably always be my least favorite day, I can’t hate them completely. They bring something important—healing, reflection, and a chance to keep moving forward. Mondays may drain me, but they also remind me that I’m trying, that I’m showing up for myself, and that’s something to be grateful for.

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Pelvic floor#CPTSD

I sneezed and it has been five https://days.Three times, loss control,not bladder control and could not get to the standing position and each time I was alone https://here.That scared me, my situation, my health issues are not going https://away.If I dont keep moving, I will get https://worse.I was dancing for three hours, every week, moving, flexible and strong, now, sedatary and weak again. Every winter, my baseline flops, fck https://that.This time, it hurts a hundred times more. I am not here, only,to make his, life https://easier.I have spent my entire adult life running from them, and Im tired. I am going to beable to make my own.im tired and over adults being https://cruel.Im sad they listened to them, sad they never bothered with getting to know me, hurt they excluded me but not https://surprised.Ive lived it, not new or any, different from my https://upbringing.The only difference is, it was fully intentional and meant, to hurt me. Intention vs https://impact.Look it https://up.Accountability is not apoligizing or speaking outloud of the hurt, it is changing the conditions, environment and the https://behavior.I did, I have.They, did not.so I, removed myself.They, still, have the same https://issues.I want more for myself and I will beable to build better.im better than this mediocre level https://life.I wanted him but he never wanted https://me.I wont settle now and Im ashamed I believed him and his family, they will never be forthcoming or engaging towards https://me.I was wrong to expose the https://truth.I was wrong in questioning my role and I won't be doing that again.my role, is for me, to be here, for, my son and the https://animals.There is no extended family or https://friends.There are no obligations or https://commitments.They chose that, not https://me.I am mearly responding to what https://was.I was never integrated, by his, choice, not https://mine.I stood by him, his choice to never wanting traditions or involving others. I mourn not telling, not forcing the conversations but now, nope, no loss.no surprise or loss, because it was never a relationship with them, https://ever.I went, showed up, and watched, enough, to know, Im not valued, respected or https://needed.No issues left, to be resolved.
Move on and grow from, people who mock, gossip and belittle me? No, I cant learn from people who never see their own reflection. I would be careful who you admire, why your own reflection seems Foggy at times.it is due to the falsehoods and lies, that surround https://you.The scheming and plotting around https://you.The backstabbing and false narratives thrown around your https://spirit.Thats the veil of betrayal, slander and hearsay, that cover a name.it is damaging, irreversible and a fact, of my life. The amount, one must go through, to ruin, anothers https://spirit.I will never understand, support or orchestrate.

It takes a special type of dysfunction, to believe there's nothing wrong, with ganging up on person, to fight someone elses marital https://issues.To recruit people, for ANY reason, it is sick and https://deranged.They need more help, than I received.

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Someone I'm very close to told me they cherish me. A few hours later, that same person insulted me. I understand that people can love us and still not treat us right at times, but this behavior becomes unsafe when you're faced with it regularly. Push and pull is no longer something I can deal with in my personal relationships. My nervous system needs a break for a minute, so today I'm focusing on getting my personal space in order and ignoring everything else.
How are you all holding up out there?

(Pic I took at an aquarium last week)

#MentalHealth #Anxiety #Depression #ComplexPosttraumaticStressDisorder #PTSD #ADHD #AutismSpectrumDisorder #SocialAnxiety #Loneliness #Relationships #MightyTogether #CheckInWithMe

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Why Taking Time to Process Emotions Matters

I’m rarely silent because I have nothing to say. I’m silent because too much is happening all at once. When emotions hits me, it hits me straight in the chest. It tightens, feels heavy, and buzzes with nerves. People ask, “What’s wrong?” and I stare back, wishing I could hand them the feeling itself because I don’t even understand it yet.

I’ve learned that my emotions move much faster than my words do. Or maybe my words move slower because I need time to catch up to the truth.

The Moment I Go Quiet

I know the exact moment when I go quiet. It could be over the smallest thing, like someone rolling their eyes in a way that feels judgmental. Or the way someone’s voice changes mid-conversation, suddenly making me feel personally targeted, as though it was my fault.

My body reacts before my mind even has a chance to interpret the actual meaning or cause. I feel the blood rush to my face, pressure behind my eyes, and the all-too-familiar urge to retreat further inward.

This is what shutting down looks like for me. I withdraw and grow distant because my mind is stuck in a loop. What did I miss? What did I say wrong? Did I misunderstand? My nervous system is in overdrive, incessantly searching for safety, meaning, and reassurance. And when I’m in that state of mind, asking me to explain how I feel feels like asking me to speak underwater.

I’ve Learned Not to Trust My First Words

There are times when I force myself to talk anyway. But the problem with that is I’m not fully present. I’m off somewhere in my mind, replaying everything that made me go silent in the first place. My attention isn’t even focused on the conversation at hand.

It’s frustrating because I want to be engaged and have a good time, but my mind holds me back in fear and anxiety. In those moments, it feels like I have no choice but to retreat into silence.

In that state, I answer too quickly. I minimize my feelings to seem easier. I say, “I’m fine,” when I’m not, because the phrase “I don’t know yet” once felt unacceptable. And later, when I’m alone, the real feelings kick into high gear, becoming heavier and clearer than before.

Processing Looks Like Stillness

Processing, for me, happens slowly. It looks like sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at nothing, letting the weight in my chest rise and fall until it softens. It looks like pacing around the house because my body needs movement even when my mind feels stuck, grabbing small bites of food because sitting still long enough for a full meal feels impossible. And it looks like crying in the shower so no one can hear me, letting the water run down my body along with my tears.

Sometimes it looks like opening my notebook and writing a sentence, crossing it out, and trying again. And again. Letting the wrong words fall away until one finally feels honest. Until something clicks and I can breathe a little easier, knowing I’ve found the shape of what I’m actually feeling.

I’m not avoiding the conversation. I’m preparing for it. I’ve given myself the space I need to come back grounded, instead of flooded. I need my body to settle before my voice can, before I can speak from truth instead of overwhelm.

When Silence Was Misunderstood

I feel like my silence has been detrimental to relationships. Some of the hardest moments in my relationships came when my need for time was taken personally.

It happened when space was seen as punishment. When pauses were treated like rejection. When I was pressured to speak before I understood myself.

That pressure didn’t bring me closer. It made me retreat even further. My mind and body don’t open under demand. They open under patience, gentleness, and knowing that I’ll be met with care when I return.

The Difference Safety Makes

With emotional safety, everything changes. When someone says, “Take your time. I’m here when you’re ready,” my body’s tension eases a bit. My thoughts slow down, and the fog I’d been in begins to lift. Words find me naturally instead of being dragged out of me.

I don’t disappear. I come back to myself clearer, more honest, and less guarded. That sense of safety gives my nervous system a chance to breathe again.

This Is Me Trying to Love Well

I’ve learned that needing time before I explain myself is an expression of how I love responsibly. It’s how I make sure my words are true instead of reactive. It’s how I protect the connection instead of damaging it in a moment of overwhelm. And It’s how I honor both my feelings and the person in front of me.

This has taken me a very long time to reach, but I’m finally able to say this without apology: “I need some time to process before I can explain how I feel.”

I’ll Come Back With Words That Matter

I may go quiet for a while. But I always come back.

And when I do, it’s with clarity, softness, and words that sound like me. I don’t need less feeling. I just need more time. And when the words arrive, they arrive whole—because I waited long enough to let them become true.

When you feel overwhelmed, how do you give yourself space to process before responding?

“I don’t need less feeling. I just need more time—and when the words arrive, they arrive whole.”

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD #Anxiety #self

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My Father's House

I have known many versions of my Father throughout my life.

The teen who graduated on Friday
and had me on Monday
and did his best to raise me.

The young man trying so hard
to build a life for his family,
using the blunt and sharp tools
he was handed
instead of the ones I needed.

The man who believed
that the belt
and his hands
and police
and institutions
would teach me lessons
he didn’t have the words to teach—
because his father
and his father before him
were good men in institutions
who did their best
to raise good men.

And maybe they succeeded
in raising good men.

But did they succeed
in having good relationships
with their children?

Were they close?
Did they know
they were loved?

Or did they just tolerate each other
and mourn the words left unsaid—

until a bugle,
a rifle salute,
and a folded flag
placed in waiting hands,
as if honor
could substitute
for tenderness?

I covered my grandfather’s corpse
with a flag
because my own father asked me to.

I uncovered—
and covered—
and arranged—
and did my best to take pictures
because he asked me to.

I did not share them.

Because even in my own grief
I knew better—
that he should not have to remember
his father that way,
but as the man
he looked up to.

That massive figure
in my father’s life.

A soldier.
A hero.
A grandfather.

Someone who put the safety
and security of those around him
before anyone else.

Barely present in mine—
but everywhere
in my body.

In the way my shoulders stay raised.
In the way my jaw locks.
In the way my chest tightens
when voices rise.

In the way I confuse love
with endurance.
Safety
with silence.
Affection
with compliance.

He wasn’t there—
but his shadow was.

And He wasn’t there either—
but His rules were.

Both distant.
Both watching.
Both shaping me
without knowing me.

I learned obedience
before trust.
Fear
before faith.
Survival
before love.

I learned coping skills
I never consented to—
hypervigilance,
self-erasure,
earning affection,
bracing for impact.

I learned how to disappear
to stay safe.

And now I am unlearning
what his love taught me—
that love is conditional,
that care comes with consequences,
that fathers only show up
when they’re angry.

And I am unlearning
what His love taught me—
that grace must be earned,
that pain is holy,
that suffering
is obedience.

Because my love
doesn’t feel like that.

My love lives in my hands.
In the way I sit with people
without fixing them.
In the way I soften my voice
instead of raising it.
In the way
I stay.

His will read with regret and grief
that he could not love his family
the way he wanted to—
because of violence and war
and trauma
and violence and war.

But my father loved him.
And I loved my father.

So I carried out his wishes.

But His Will?
God the Father?

How do you follow
God the Father
when your own father
has never followed you
into the depths of hell
he threw you into—
from a very young age—
without outsourcing repair
to cops,
military schools,
jails,
institutions?

Why am I so hard to love
without institutions?

Why can’t he love
what he created?

Why can’t He
love unconditionally?

It’s hard to find faith
in a hundred-million-dollar church
with a twenty-million-dollar sound system
that spends a million a year
on its community—

while welcoming anti-trans,
anti-queer,
anti-me rhetoric
into its halls and walls—

then passing the plate
for more money
and more money
and more money
to do it again
and again
and again.

The concerts are good.

But Christ’s teachings are missing
when it feels more like a brand
to be managed
than a message
to be lived.

Maybe I love Christ.

But I hate His Christians.
And His churches.
And the complacency
of calling a concert
and a short sermon
His good works.

Hatred and Hell
and discrimination
and His love
cannot coexist
in the same building—

but they can
in hearts
not ready to heal.

Maybe I am wicked.

But I am love.

And my love
does not demand suffering.
My love
does not need punishment.
My love
does not disappear
when someone fails.

And yet—
when his love
and His love
are what I crave
to feel whole enough
to surrender control
to a higher power
that can’t heal
what it broke—

it’s hard to feel
his grace
or His grace
when his actions
and His actions
have made me feel unsafe
and unloved
since my earliest memory.

On the drive home from church
I asked whether a baby
burns in fire and brimstone
before knowing Christ.

“Yes,” they said.

Because when asked why—

“Yes, queer kids burn in hell
for refusing His teachings.”

Unless they change
their wicked ways.

Unless
I change
mine.

Is it wicked
to love without shame?

To care less about labels
than the kind,
decent,
warm,
giving person
standing in front of you—

sharing their heart and home—

when His home
and his home
and His heart
and his heart
feel like hatred?

The message says
love and forgive
and love
and spread his word—

treat your neighbor
as you wish
to be treated.

Is that talking shit
about someone three feet away
because you’ve been to church
a handful of times in recovery?

Is it not wicked
to judge others?

To speak harshly
when I can hear you
the entire time?

I went to church
for the first time in decades
looking for reasons
to believe in His love.

Instead, I found
his critiques
and His Christians
serving hatred
on a platter—

like the offering plate—

asking for more money
and more money
and more money
to reach more people
to make more money.

If God exists,
why does His flock
muddy His words
until they sound like
his words
and his words
and his words?

If God exists,
He does not live
in a megachurch.

He lives
in courtyards,
small circles,
music,
shared meals,
people unburdening their hearts
without asking for payment afterward.

I feel Him
in the park—
serving the most vulnerable
of His flock.

I feel Him
in my siblings.
I feel Him
in my cousins.

But when He robbed me
of my family
long before their time
should have ended—

and when His hatred
moves through men and women
who attend church every Sunday
just to talk down
on those who’ve walked through Hell
and still search for His grace
without ever being shown His love—

Where do you go?

How do you kneel
and surrender
to a higher power
that has only ever hurt you
through His words
and his words
and his words?

My father’s house
was never my safe space.

My Father’s house
was never where I found grace.

But I can build one
for my son.
And his son.
And his son.

Still—

They say my father has changed.
And maybe he has.

He drinks less.
He says sorry more.

He blames alcohol
for decisions
that nearly destroyed
another marriage—

with abandon,
with carelessness,
with no regard
for the children
watching it happen.

His children.
His children.
And the children
they stitched together.

Would I have lost
my bonus brother?
My bonus mother?

Because of him?
Because of Him?

She lowers expectations.
She serves him.
Because of His will.
Because of vows
spoken in front of Him.
Because of the life
they built together.

And I find myself
hating him
and hating Him—

while loving her,
and my brother,
and my brother,
and my sister.

And despite everything
I still feel Him
in their presence.

But I feel his influence more.
And I feel His violence.
And his violence.

And the way
my body remembers
before my mind does.

He broke me.
And He broke me.

And once again
I am left
to put myself back together—

alone,
in an institution—

because he cannot repair
what he broke.

And neither can He.

#MightyPoets #MentalHealth #ADHD #PTSD #SubstanceUseDisorders #Depression #Grief #MightyTogether #CheckInWithMe #Trauma

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How can I pray for you today? #Depression #Anxiety #Faith #Prayer #Relationships #Christianity #MentalHealth

I believe in the power of prayer. I truly believe God loves us all and wants to hear from us. Prayer doesn’t require special language, it’s simply talking to God.

I would like to pray for you. How can I pray for you today? Health? Relationships? Wisdom? Put your prayer requests in the comments and I will gladly pray for you.

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