After I was born one September afternoon, under the Virgo zodiac sign, my grandmother’s astrologer Gary predicted that I would be a perfectionist. No one in my family has much faith in Gary except for Grandma Donna: she justifies her monthly $40 visits by repeatedly invoking his 1980s’ prediction that my father would marry “a woman from the Orient.” This story, though famous in Houk family folklore, is not so convincing for the rest of us. In reality, Gary knew that his client desperately wanted her son, 35 years old and single, to get married and have kids, and that my dad was then traveling to Japan for a business trip. Dad met my mother, a Chinese American born and raised in Manhattan, years later when his business partner introduced them. Still, that was enough to fuel my grandmother’s chatter throughout my childhood about the role divination played in my parents’ union and my future perfectionist temperament.

By elementary school, evidence seemed to support Gary’s claim about my so-called perfectionism. My transcript, a piece of colored paper taped to the classroom wall with my name and grades, was filled with gold stars and 12-out-of-12 scores for spelling and multiplication tests. At after-school recitals, I performed impressive piano solos, though the music I played could be better described as obedient rather than mellifluous. My instructors praised my consistently high performance, and Gary’s prediction became more fact than fallacy to me. It got repeated so much, to me and by me, that for a time it shaped who I thought I was.

As I grew older, I became increasingly familiar with the art of failure: failing farther and faster, to frame these experiences in the legacy of Elizabeth Bishop. As my mistakes and disappointments grew in number and gravity, so did my acceptance of them. They still hurt, but my mother’s mantra, which she first said to me in a Metro-North train bathroom after I spilled hot chocolate on my sweater, always made me feel better. “Shit happens,” she said, mopping my top with a wad of paper napkins. Though I was called, and believed myself to be, a motivated perfectionist throughout my childhood, it turns out I was just in an environment that valued accomplishment, even if the motivation sometimes didn’t feel so healthy. I wasn’t living perfectionism in the true sense of the word: as a medical disorder that pushes people to set irrationally high or irrationally important goals for themselves.

There is a difference between taking pleasure in achievement and perfectionism as medical condition, which can be a burden in and of itself that inflicts feelings of self-doubt and inadequacy. Even worse, perfectionism is often associated with other negative effects and conditions, such as eating disorders, obsessive compulsive disorder, increased assessment anxiety and decreased achievement motivation and satisfaction. Studies of students and athletes even show that perfectionists underperform compared to their potential and their less anxiety-ridden peers, and they also identify opportunities for growth and feedback, such as workshops, as risks that open them up to critique and should be avoided.

The widespread confusion between perfectionism as a throwaway phrase and perfectionism as a condition is not accidental. In fact, it stems from the medical field. Many psychologists argue that there are two types of perfectionism: adaptive and maladaptive. Adaptive perfectionism refers to people who strive for healthy organization, goals and stress management, whereas maladaptive perfectionists set goals so unrealistic that their efforts result in self-criticism and low self-esteem. Some psychologists use different terminology, labeling the two types of perfectionist tendencies as normal or neurotic, active or passive, positive or negative, but these differences are largely semantic. They all propagate the belief that one type of perfectionism is good and “normal,” and the other is bad and abnormal.

Other scholars and doctors, among them Thomas Greenspon, disagree. Greenspon argues that because absolute perfection is impossible, there are no possible healthy or adaptive ways of striving towards such a goal. When people casually call themselves perfectionists — or when Gary points the finger at you — they are actually noticing typical traits of “striving for excellence.” While perfectionists see flaws a personal defects, those who strive for excellence consider mistakes or imperfections as reasons to work harder.

When Gary predicted I would be a perfectionist, he was flattering more than warning my grandmother. We’ve all heard, maybe even used, the classic interview line, “My biggest weakness is that I’m a perfectionist.” The subtext to such a statement is that even if we spend too much time or energy on a specific task, that level of attention and care is not so bad, and perhaps even a strength. In the USA Network show Monk, the titular detective’s OCD causes him to suffer but also provides him with almost superhuman powers of observance. Whenever people comment on his OCD behaviors, he replies, “It’s a gift — and a curse.” Perfectionism, at the least the valorized kind, is often viewed as a type of gift as well: a tool rather than an obstacle.

Amy Chua’s notorious memoir The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother unleashed a torrent of media attention on perfectionist parenting strategies, particularly employed by mothers of Chinese heritage, when it was published in 2011. Many TV personalities, scholars and parents accused her of cruelly enforcing impossibly high standards for her two daughters. One magazine columnist accused Chua of practicing “abusive perfectionism,” and TIME Magazine wrote that in China, “cheerless demands for perfection are becoming a problem.”

I agree that some of Chua’s parenting tactics, such as requiring her daughter to practice the piano for up to six hours daily, seem extreme, but I also think it’s easy to point to perfectionism as a problem when we view it through another cultural lens. If we call some perfectionism “normal,” we recognize that some perfectionism is abnormal. Who decides where the line is drawn? Normality is a constantly evolving social construct. How can some perfectionism be lauded as normal and beneficial while simultaneously being condemned as “abusive”?

I worry about myths and the glorification of perfectionism in a “world’s honor college” environment where every student is expected to emerge as a global leader who has completed an important research project by graduation. We are all here because of impressive transcripts, packed CVs and dogged ambition. Several times a year, such as when we apply to study abroad, overload, underload, attend graduate school, and get a job, we are reminded that we are being evaluated by a traditional and rather inflexible measurement known as a GPA. Somehow, this three-digit number tells the world if we’re qualified for a certain type of experience.

But it’s not just that our efforts, interests, curiosities, strengths and weaknesses are flattened into a number or letter; it’s also that we expect this number to be, well, perfect. I grew up with the understanding that demonstrating knowledge of 70 to 79 percent of class material is “average,” or a C. I was surprised to learn from a British professor at NYU Abu Dhabi that in the United Kingdom, 70 percent and above is considered “excellent” performance. I agree with him that the UK’s system is just plain better: it leaves room for significant growth while simultaneously recognizing outstanding effort and mastery of ideas. As a high school professor put it, “Getting a 90 percent or above means you’ve solved the topic you’re addressing. People can read your essay and never write about it again.” Still, we hunger for the immaculate 100, a tacit form of perfectionism.

I’m grateful I dodged Gary’s prediction of becoming a perfectionist, and I hope that as people become increasingly aware of the real effects of perfectionism as a condition, the word loses its value as praise or a strength. But just because I am not a true perfectionist does not mean I am immune to the pressures that inundate students at schools such as NYUAD. My family and I make fun of Gary’s predictions, but I cleave to my own superstitions and contradictions about fate. I maintain skepticism of full control and determination of certain situations because believing that some aspects of my life are ungovernable helps mitigate the guilt I feel when my expectations are not met. When things do go right, nodding to chance is a way of gently practicing humility. Some of my friends frame the results they get, good or bad, by saying that everything happens for a reason. But I prefer what my mother says: shit happens.