Letting Go of Perfect: What Abstract Art Taught Me

For most of my life, I thought that “doing more” meant doing better.

I grew up in a family where excellence was expected—not in a harsh or critical way, but in a quiet, persistent undercurrent. The kind of unspoken pressure that gently but firmly pushes you to always go further, always improve, always do more. I internalised it early. And it followed me, silently, through school, through adulthood, through all the roles I tried to fulfill.

It shaped my sense of self: no matter what I accomplished, it never felt like quite enough. If I finished something, I could have done it better. If I succeeded, maybe it wasn’t the right kind of success. If I rested, I felt guilty.

Then I started painting.

Not just painting, but abstract painting. Messy, layered, intuitive, unpredictable. It wasn’t about getting it "right." There was no perfect reference, no clear finish line. And that terrified me.

But something about it also drew me in. I started to spend time with colours instead of outcomes. I began layering textures without knowing what they would become. I followed my instinct instead of a plan.

And I noticed something: I felt free.

Painting became my unlearning space. The one place where I could make something imperfect, let it dry, come back later, cover it again, scrape it, rebuild it. I stopped trying to control every step. I learned to let the painting evolve.

And with that, I began to evolve too.

The more I painted, the more I softened the voice in my head that said I should be more, do more, prove more. I stopped needing to impress anyone. I stopped needing to impress myself.

Abstract art became my sanctuary from perfectionism.

Because in abstraction, nothing is wasted. The mistakes become part of the texture. The layers add depth. The cracks hold meaning. The piece becomes whole because of everything that went into it, not just the parts that look good on the surface.

One painting, in particular, reminded me of this deeply: Golden Wave Remixed. I first painted it in 2021. For a while, I thought it was finished. But it never quite sat right with me. In 2024, I returned to it and reworked the colours and contrast. Finally, it felt complete.

And yet, I didn’t list it. Not right away.

Maybe I wasn’t ready to let it go. Maybe I was still holding on to something—an expectation, a fear, a need to make it more "perfect."

But now, I see it for what it is: a visual record of process. A timeline in texture. A reminder that sometimes, what needs to shift isn’t the artwork—it’s the artist.

And this is true for many of my paintings. Some have taken years. Some are still waiting. Some I’ve painted over, only to rediscover something valuable underneath. I’ve learned that knowing when something is "done" is part of the work. And so is letting go.

That lesson didn’t stay in the studio. It came with me. Into my daily life. Into how I parent, how I work, how I pause.

Because letting go of perfection isn’t just an artistic choice. It’s a way of living. And sometimes, done is better than perfect. Sometimes, being enough is the bravest thing you can be.

So this is what abstract art taught me. Not just how to make something beautiful, but how to be okay with what is. How to let go of the pressure to be perfect. How to soften.

And maybe, just maybe, how to come home to myself.