There is a video of me as a little girl where I am pretending to be She-Ra.

Of course, my sister had already done her She-Ra skit but I wanted to be just like her, so I put on the plastic dress and the plastic mask, ran out onto my grandparents porch and said “For the honor of Grayskull, I am She-Ra.”

Then I made some flying noises, ran in a circle and quickly exited our makeshift stage.

I always wanted to be She-Ra.

She had (according to Wikiepdia) “the archetypical female traits of kindness, compassion, and a soft-spoken manner” but she also had “bravery and perseverance in the face of danger. As well as the super-human strength and stamina shared by He-Man after his transformation, She-Ra had additional skills in her changed form. These include a healing touch and telepathic communication with animals.”

Of course I wanted to be like She-ra. She kicked ass.

But when I was in kindergarten my best friend was always She-Ra and made me be her sidekick, Perfuma. Since I had the Perfuma action figure, that made perfect sense to her stuck up ass. Even as a five year old, she was a total bitch.

Maybe that’s how I always felt, the sidekick to everyone: my best friend, my big sister. Which is why I developed such a perfectionist complex at such a young age.

My perfectionism carried me through my formative years. I was hard on myself in every aspect of my life. My parents never made me make good grades or participate in school. I was always the one that had to do my best, be the best and look the best. I always thought I was too fat. I always thought my grades could be better. I always thought I could be more than I was.

When really I was okay.

I couldn’t see I didn’t need to be She-Ra. I didn’t need—and didn’t want—to be that soft-spoken, well-mannered woman who showed bravery and perserverance when she faced evil. I wanted to be the girl who showed bravery and perserverance always, the outspoken female who stood up for herself without having to change into something she wasn’t. I didn’t need that superhuman alter ego. I was okay as I was. I just couldn’t see it.

Even my entire senior English project, all 700 pages of it, which I stayed up for 48 hours finishing, was entirely about shattering my imperfections.

But it was perfect. Because I was perfect, and obsessed with being so.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one trying to have superhuman abilities. “Superwoman Syndrome” is a legit thing these days. An article in the Telegraph quotes a doctor as saying that “Superwomen want the perfect life. No matter how well they are doing, they never feel quite good enough.”

Eating disorders are only one visible sign of the syndrome. In fact, I think it is the least damaging. At least with an eating disorder, you know there is something wrong. I went through my whole childhood and teenage years knowing that there was something wrong with me. I had a mild eating disorder that wasn’t classified, I was depressed and constantly competing against myself. I was miserable.

Now they tell me I was just trying to be superwoman. Thanks for the late diagnosis.

These days I’m not such a superwoman. I still deal with my own inability to understand that I am not—and never will be—perfect. I still don’t understand why I can’t do more and be more than I am. I can’t understand why sometimes I am still not okay with where I am in life. After all, if I’m happy isn’t that enough?

Sometimes it is. Sometimes it isn’t. I just keep telling myself that no matter how much power I want to channel from Grayskull, all I have is myself.

And I am good enough as I am.