The Perfectionist’s Juxtaposition by Grace

The Perfectionist’s Juxtaposition by Grace - May 2026 Scholarship Essay

I find myself in an imagined doctor’s office, once again at my grandparent’s rickety, old place; my eldest cousin and I “play pretend” on sickeningly sweet, summer days like these. As was my subconscious routine, I stare, lackadaisical, at the ceiling fan above, counting the time passing between each revolution. When my mind wanders, as it often does, I imagine myself as a bird, and my cousin as a boy who’d clipped my wings. With each violating encounter, my world became quieter, and I was left flightless. With time, the vastness of our small town’s once verdant flora suddenly turns gray– as if our northern, barren winters arrived prematurely.
An excerpt from Perfect, Journal Entry #42, (12/04/2022): “Thought I’d gotten rid of the urge… excel… perfection… laying here as if the weight of the world has fallen upon my shoulders; there are people who suffer worse. I actually convinced myself that I’d grown, but reality hit me hard today; winter’s returning, and with it, so are some old habits… tendencies never leave, I don’t think; they just kind of lurk.” At 16, I find I’ve grown to love my therapist, and have made a hobby out of journaling. It’s not enough, though, my therapist says. But she knows I don’t have time for anything more. “Musical rehearsals are picking up, and being a lead role, that takes up a lot of my time; not to mention volleyball, show choir, and all of the other clubs I’m in. You get it.” Sitting opposite of Ka, her lips purse and tilt in a way I’ve come to be familiar with– she often makes it when she thinks I’m wrong, but knows that she can’t do more than suggest options and hope I take them. “Can I just ask, Grace, why you don’t want to drop anything? You’ve got a lot on your plate.”
“I can’t.” She blinks, once, twice. A beat.
“And that’s because–”
“Then I’d be failing.”
“Well, first of all, that’s not failing. Secondly, it’s making you miserable.”
“I’m miserable now, sure, but it’ll all pay off when I make it to an Ivy League school; my work’s my only way out of here.” Ka shakes her head and sighs. Slowly, I stand to leave this week’s session.
As I begin to say goodbye, she gently coos, “You do know it’s ok to take a break every once in a while, right?”
I laugh. “Ka, that’s what sleeping’s for.”
Nasty, brutish winds funnel another winter’s snowfall around the tree outside. My mind’s wandering, yet again, fixated on how to seem normal. “Grace, you can’t ignore us forever.”
Right. I snap back to reality, but refuse to face anything other than the lone window in my counselor’s office; it’s over-crowded in here. If I were facing forward, Theune, my counselor, is to my left; my mother to my right. Theune called a crisis hotline, and Mom’s dialed Ka’s number. Great. I glance up at the ticking clock above the desk– it’s 8:45 a.m., and they’re taking time away from my Advanced Composition and Literature class. More assignments to make up later, I guess.
Slowly I turn my body to face right, making sure to keep my eyes glued to the outdated spotted ceiling tiles above me. Steady your breathing, I tell myself. “I don’t know what you guys want, I’m fine. Can I go to class now?” There’s a hum inside my body, a shakiness I can’t quite name.
The silence in the air is palpable. “Grace, this has been going on for months now. We really think– here at school, at home, and professionally– that you need extra help. I know a behavioral facility we can send you to–”
Bolting upright, I suppress the creeping waterworks. “I can’t afford to let my grades and extracurriculars slip.”
“You can’t afford to lose your life.”
It’s January 30th, 2025; I should be taking my AP Physics final right now, but instead I’m being greeted by cascading brick walls and an inescapable sense of dread. Behavioral health facilities are different; no clocks, locks on every hinge, and only being able to use pencils with permission. As I am introduced to my new peers, a woman named Kayla escorts me to her rather plain office. All warm smiles, she gleefully states she read my paperwork, and would like to hear me explain why I believe I needed to be here. Disoriented from the lights, I ask Kayla if I can reference my journal.
Excerpt from Hometown Dump, Journal Entry #239, (12/26/2024): “I never thought I’d make it to adulthood; I always assumed I’d die in some kind of accident or health-related issue or take my own life.” I explain my flightless bird anecdote, and how I’ve always seen myself as permanently broken, unable to fly ever again. In Kayla’s eyes, something like hope glimmers. “You’re not broken, and we’re going to give you the tools to fly again.”
Five months later, marble-sized tears leak from my eyes as I’m handed my high school diploma, smiling from ear to ear. Excerpt from A Conversation with Friends, Journal Entry #272, (06/01/2025): “At graduation, my friends kept asking if I was okay– I’d been sobbing for hours. They asked, ‘Are you sad to leave high school?’ I said, ‘No, I’m just proud I made it out healthier and happier.’”