When a dance floor in San Francisco taught me more about success than a decade of striving

Perfection crazed much? Well, something about being in your 40s forces you to look back on your life. The mistakes, the missed opportunities, the things that slipped away versus the things you seized.

Life is never what we thought it would be, is it? And sometimes there is shame in that.

The Inventory of Failure

I feel like I failed at so many things. I am a single mother after all. A successful marriage evaded me despite it always feeling inevitable. I thought it would have been passed down to me as a gift from many generations of “til death do us part.” I thought I’d be a CEO by now, or at least have published a best-selling book. I definitely thought there’d be a private jet waiting for me at SFO for work trips instead of my neighbor in a red Subaru.

Turns out, nothing is inevitable.

I always thought I’d be an author or an actress, until I got scared by how unimaginably hard it was to make it. The pressure to make it financially and be self-sufficient has been a monkey on my back since I was 16. My parents ensured that I majored in things that got job interviews. Safe things. Practical things. Not things that made my heart race.

When you fail at romantic relationships and are too scared to chase your creative dreams, you become obsessed with succeeding at everything else. I had to be a success at my career, I had to throw the perfect dinner party, and damnit — I would be the most devoted mother you ever saw, come hell or high water. Perfection started to structure the outline of my identity. The lines were hard and more defined. For what if blurry lines meant I hadn’t quite “made it”?

The Two-Cake Rule

You see, the only way I could accept “failure” at some things was to be exceptional at the rest. My pasta sauce had to be the best you have ever had. And if I messed up a cake, I would toss it and bake another right away. I always buy enough ingredients for two cakes because defeat is not an option. At least not for things I can control.

For too long I have crumbled under pressure to find the right marriage, the perfect house, 2.5 children, and a career that grants you a promotion every two years. Shame fills the cracks of all the things I didn’t reach.

But last Saturday night, something shifted.

The Night Everything Changed

A group of middle-aged suburban parents rented out a hotel in San Francisco with a DJ booth in the outdoor courtyard. We checked our professional lives at the door. The DJ played jungle beats, someone wore a Barnum and Bailey circus hat, and we all danced. The more I let my body feel the music, the more I was able to release shame and failure into the starry night sky. Nothing mattered outside of that singular moment. And the people around me didn’t give one flying squirrel if I had a corner office or a marriage certificate. They just knew I was a good neighbor and had a fun sparkly cowboy hat.

What Perfectionism Really Is

Brené Brown writes that perfectionism is a form of shame, “a self-destructive belief system that fuels this primary thought: If I look perfect, and do everything perfectly, I can avoid or minimize the painful feelings of shame, judgment, and blame.”

I’ve spent decades running from those feelings. I armored myself with achievement and made sure that if my personal life was messy, at least my professional life would be spotless. Every cake (or PowerPoint) would be perfect, even if I had to throw out three attempts to get there.

But you know what? I’m tired.

Perfectionism Doesn’t Just Exhaust Us — It Isolates Us

But here’s what I’m realizing: perfectionism doesn’t just exhaust us, it isolates us.

When I’m obsessing over making every deliverable flawless, I’m not building relationships with my colleagues. When I’m redoing presentations three times instead of asking for feedback after round one, I’m missing opportunities for collaboration. When I’m so afraid of looking incompetent that I never admit I don’t understand something, I’m cutting myself off from the very connections that make work meaningful.

The irony? Research shows that vulnerability and authenticity are what actually build trust and influence at work. Not perfection. People don’t connect with flawless; they connect with real.

What Actually Matters

I’m tired of becoming frantic trying to reach an impossible ideal. I need to pause and think about what actually makes me feel fulfilled. As Yung Pueblo says:

“Stop confusing being busy with being fulfilled. One fills your calendar. The other makes you feel like you are living your life in the right way.”

What if the life I’m living—messy, imperfect, and NOTHING like I planned—is exactly the right one? What if being a good mom and a good neighbor matters more than a C-level title ever could? After all, I think my daughter will remember the nights I danced with her in the kitchen much more than the size of my bonus. And my colleagues will remember the times I asked them to help me solve problems, not the times my slides had perfect formatting.

The best career advice I never took: Stop trying to look perfect. Start trying to be human.

The Real Work of Midlife

That night in San Francisco, surrounded by other imperfect humans in their 40s, some who’ve also stumbled through divorces and career pivots and dreams deferred, I felt more whole than I have in years. Because I wasn’t performing. I just was. I might have tripped, I might have stepped on someone else’s feet. But no one cared.

And maybe that’s the real work of your 40s: learning that you really don’t have to earn your worthiness. My true value isn’t measured in promotions or perfect pasta sauce. The moments when we are the most ourselves — imperfect, messy, fully human — are the ones that actually matter. And those are the moments that build the kind of professional relationships that actually advance our careers.

The shame wants us to believe that if we’re not perfect, we’re failures. But what if we’re just human? What if that’s not only enough, what if it’s everything?

Old Habits, New Perspective

I’m still buying ingredients for two cakes. Old habits die hard. But I’m trying to remember that even a slightly lopsided cake, served with love, is better than no cake at all. And at work, I’m trying to remember that asking a “dumb” question or admitting I need help isn’t weakness. It’s the beginning of connection.

I still haven’t published that book. But I’m writing again. And dancing. And that’s enough.

Follow me on Linkedin here