A few months ago, I had a major “a-ha” moment that has stayed with me. In a kind but matter-of-fact way, my therapist said, “You have OCD features.”

I was surprised. I had always associated OCD with its more recognizable symptoms, none of which I had. But as she explained it, so many things suddenly made sense: my need for order in every space I occupy, my ability to recall conversations from decades ago nearly word for word, the anxiety I experience when life feels messy or unresolved.

Oddly, I didn’t feel stigmatized. I felt relieved. Learning that my brain functions differently gave me greater comfort in my own skin. More importantly, it set me on a journey of asking which parts of this wiring I want to hold onto—and which parts I’m ready to loosen my grip on.

I’m learning that not everything deserves the same level of perfection.

We live in a culture that encourages us to optimize everything. As parents, it can feel like we should volunteer for every school event, stay on top of every WhatsApp thread, make sure our kids read every night, excel at work, stay fit, nurture our marriages, deepen our friendships, and somehow do it all with grace. Social media makes it easy to believe everyone else is managing this effortlessly.

I’m learning not to chase that illusion.

Instead, I’m trying to identify the few things that matter most and give myself permission to be merely “good enough” at the rest.

Last year, my daughter Naomi helped me figure out what belongs on that short list. After becoming increasingly concerned about the unhoused people she saw in our neighborhood, she asked what we could do to help. When I explained that there were organizations dedicated to this work, she immediately decided she wanted to get involved. Instead of birthday presents, she asked friends and family to donate to Coalition for the Homeless, ultimately raising more than $1,000.

At that moment, I realized that one of my greatest teachers was standing right in front of me. Naomi reminded me that what our children remember isn’t how efficiently we managed our lives, but the values they watched us live.

I hope they remember something else, too.

I grew up in a loving family, but I can’t remember my parents ever apologizing to me. There was plenty of support, but little modeling of what it looks like when adults admit they’ve fallen short. I still lose my patience sometimes. But when I do, I apologize without qualification or caveat. I’m learning that asking my daughters for forgiveness doesn’t diminish my authority as their parent—it teaches them that accountability, humility, and love belong together.

The High Holy Days remind us that growth isn’t about becoming perfect. It’s about returning, again and again, to the person we most hope to be. At this moment in my life, I’m learning to worry less about getting everything right and more about getting the right things right. To hold tightly to the values that matter most—and a little more loosely to everything else.