Tag: #selflove

Posted on

Scars

The other day, I was listening to random songs on a music streaming app when a familiar one came on. As I sang along, I paid closer attention to the lyrics — being present is my new thing, after all. One line caught me: “I got a scar I can talk about.”

That lyric made me think about my own scars. First the physical ones, then the mental ones, and finally the life moments that have shaped me into someone different than I was before.

Physical Scars

I’ve only had two surgeries in my life: an appendectomy and bunion surgery. Both scars have healed, but every time I see them, I’m reminded of the pain before, the pain after, and how necessary those difficult days were to reach the comfort I feel now. They’re small reminders that healing hurts — but it’s worth it.

Mental Scars

I’ve had a pretty darn good life. I grew up in a loving, close family. I’ve always had friends. I was raised with warmth and support. But even with a good life, certain moments leave marks.

One of my earliest mental scars came from a friend who told me she couldn’t be my friend anymore — for no reason at all. It took me forty years to understand that her actions had nothing to do with me. People don’t intentionally exclude me. How others treat you and what they say about you is a reflection of them, not you.

Another scar came from a relationship that made me feel like I was losing my mind. I became convinced I wasn’t normal, that something was wrong with me. I wanted so badly to be “normal” — to communicate well, to live without constant stress. In my search for clarity, I went to therapy. One day my therapist said, “There is nothing wrong with you. You are the most normal patient I have ever had.”

WOW.
You mean I’m not the angry one?
I’m not the one who can’t communicate?
That relationships aren’t 50/50 — they’re 100/100?

A few days later, I was being yelled at for being angry when I hadn’t expressed any emotion at all. I mentally stepped outside the moment, watching it like a fly on the wall. He was telling me how I felt — but how could he know? I was the only one who could name my feelings. And in that moment, I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t upset. I was calm.

Yet there he was, red-faced, nearly exploding, desperate to provoke a reaction.

From that moment on, no one gets to tell me how I feel.

Life-Changing Moments

Have you ever been told you’re not the same person you used to be? Have you ever felt it yourself?

In my early thirties, a friend moved in with me for a few months. She was an alcoholic. I had never lived with someone struggling like that. Watching her destructive behavior changed me. I remember sitting on my back porch wondering why I felt different — why I wasn’t as happy or giggly anymore. Seeing my best friend nearly kill herself forced me to grow up fast.

The next life-changing moment happened four years ago today. I had woven myself into so many lies and dug myself into so many holes that I finally hit rock bottom. At the time, I wanted nothing more than to disappear. I fantasized about my death and how people would react. But then I realized I would cause far more pain by leaving than by facing my demons and accepting the consequences I deserved.

So I made a commitment:
To start over.
To be 100% true to myself and to everyone around me.

I read over 200 books. I studied religious books. I watched people transform their lives and become honest with themselves. And I followed that path.

tRUE

The word tRUE became my motto — a blend of true and rue.

  • True: Something that matches reality; genuine, accurate, loyal.
  • Rue: To feel sorrow, remorse, or regret about an action.

Because I felt deep remorse for my past actions, I promised myself I would be real and genuine moving forward.

And I have kept that promise.

I am not the same person I was four years ago — thank goodness. During the hardest two and a half years, I kept daily journals. I still reread them to remind myself of my struggles and my growth. Every action I’ve taken since then has been intentional. I understand the consequences of my choices. I allow myself to be different from others. I allow myself to be imperfect.

And I have never been happier being 100% tRUE.

Posted on

Understanding Vanity, Ego, and Genuine Self-Acceptance 

Stepping outside, I am greeted by the unmistakable sound of a middle-aged woman singing karaoke in her garage across the street. Her voice echoes through the neighborhood, and I can’t help but wonder if she realizes how far her performance carries. Does she know the entire block can hear her? Perhaps she believes she has real talent; after all, don’t we all tend to overestimate our own abilities? 

We often claim to be humble, yet secretly, we are convinced that others are constantly talking about us. There is a persistent belief that everyone cares deeply about our appearance at any given moment. The reality, however, is much different: people are primarily concerned with themselves. Our egos drive us to think we are the center of attention, reminiscent of the famous song lyric, “You’re so vain, you probably think this song is about you.” 

It’s almost comical how we imagine that every person in the grocery store is waiting for us to arrive, eager to see our outfit and how we styled our hair and makeup. We act as if we are the reason everyone else decided to get out of bed that morning. This mindset is clearly unrealistic, yet it persists. 

Reflecting on childhood, it becomes apparent that our priorities were once different. Comfort was paramount; the only concern about an outfit was whether it allowed us to climb the jungle gym or jump rope with ease. At some point, though, we are taught to become more self-conscious, convinced that we are on a pedestal and everyone is watching, judging what we wear, say, and do. 

Unless we are professional athletes or movie stars, the truth is that most people do not care about us or our choices. This begs the question: why do we care so much about celebrities? Perhaps it is because we compare ourselves to them, building them up only to tear them down. By highlighting their flaws, we make ourselves feel better, forgetting that their success is the result of hard work and determination—qualities we may not have been willing to pursue ourselves. 

Yet, beneath this fascination with others, there lies a missed opportunity to redirect our attention inward and cultivate genuine self-acceptance. Instead of fixating on the perceived gaze of the world or the exploits of distant celebrities, we might find greater peace by embracing our own quirks and imperfections. Imagine the freedom in living authentically, without the weight of imagined scrutiny or the urge to measure up to standards set by strangers. In learning to release these self-imposed expectations, we open space for more meaningful connections—with ourselves and those around us—rooted not in comparison, but in understanding and appreciation. 

By letting go of the illusion that we are constantly under a spotlight, we start to recognize the value of quieter moments and the richness of everyday experiences. The truth is, when we release the pressure to perform for an imaginary audience, we grant ourselves permission to make choices that are true to our desires rather than dictated by external expectation. In this space, self-worth becomes less about comparison and more about authenticity, allowing us to nurture a confidence that isn’t dependent on fleeting validation but is rooted in genuine self-respect and personal growth. 

Embracing Authenticity 

In recent months, I have made a conscious effort to apply these reflections to my own life. Choosing to let go of the pressure to conform to others’ expectations has been an incredibly liberating experience. This newfound freedom has allowed me to focus more deeply on the person I truly want to become, rather than shaping myself according to what others might desire or expect from me. By centering my actions and self-perception on my own values, I am gradually discovering a more genuine sense of self and purpose. 

Posted on

The Quiet Grace: A Story of Self-Compassion After a Mistake

Finding Light in the Shadows of Regret

It happened on a day that began with the promise of sunlight. The air outside was cool and bright, the birds persistent in their melody. But inside me, a storm brewed—one that would soon break. I made a terrible mistake. The kind that echoes, not only in the ears of those touched by it, but also in the secret chambers of one’s own heart. It was the kind of misstep that stung with shame and disappointment, and as the reality of what I’d done settled around me, I felt the world shrink to a single, suffocating point.

At first, anger and self-loathing filled my every thought. Regret played itself on a loop; I replayed my actions, searching for the moment where I could have chosen differently, wishing fiercely that I had. Every time my mind circled back to the incident, a new wave of shame crashed over me, threatening to pull me under. I told myself that I didn’t deserve forgiveness—not from others, and certainly not from myself.

But as the hours wore on, exhaustion crept in. Self-criticism, I realized, was a fire that consumed everything in its path, leaving only ashes. My thoughts grew quieter, the sharp edges of my guilt dulling just enough for me to hear something softer beneath: the whisper of compassion.

It was faint at first, a mere suggestion. Maybe, it said, you do not have to be the villain of your own story. Maybe, just maybe, you could try to see yourself as you would see a friend in pain, someone who had made a mistake but was trying to make amends. The idea was foreign. I resisted it. After all, wasn’t compassion something you earned? And hadn’t I just forfeited that right?

Still, the whisper persisted. So, tentatively, I decided to try. I sat down, closed my eyes, and imagined myself sitting across from me—not as I was now, braced for self-attack, but as a version of myself who deserved kindness. I pictured the hurt in my own eyes, the tremble in my voice as I explained what I’d done. And as I listened, I imagined what I would say to a friend in this position:

“You made a mistake. Yes, it matters. But you are not only this mistake. You are a whole person, capable of learning, of changing, of making things right.”

A tear slid down my cheek. It felt as if some inner dam had broken, releasing a torrent of sorrow and longing for forgiveness. For the first time, I allowed myself to cry—not out of self-pity, but out of a deep need to mourn the harm I’d caused, and to accept that I was still worthy of care.

In the days that followed, I began the difficult work of making amends. I reached out to those I’d hurt, offering apologies that were raw and honest. I didn’t expect forgiveness; I knew it was not owed to me. But by speaking my regret aloud, I acknowledged the reality of my actions and took responsibility for them. This in itself was an act of compassion—not just for others, but for myself. I was telling the truth, giving myself the chance to grow from it.

There were nights when regret curled in bed beside me, whispering old accusations. On those nights, I practiced what I’d started during the day: I would breathe in, and with each breath, gently remind myself, “I am doing the best I can with what I know.” I thought of all the ways I’d tried to make things right, and recognized that punishing myself endlessly would not change the past, nor would it help anyone heal.

Slowly, I began to notice subtle shifts. My shoulders rested just a little lower. Food tasted like food again, rather than penance. I started to see myself as a work in progress, rather than a collection of failures. Each day I made one small, compassionate choice for myself—whether it was taking a walk, talking to a friend, or simply allowing myself to laugh at something silly. Each of these moments was a thread in a new tapestry, one woven with both the dark and the light.

Compassion did not excuse what I’d done; it did not erase the pain I’d caused. But it allowed me to hold my mistake in both hands, to look at it fully, and to say, “This is a part of my story, but not the whole of it.” It gave me strength to keep showing up, to do better, and to trust that redemption—though never guaranteed—is possible so long as we keep trying.

Through this journey, I discovered that the hardest forgiveness to receive is often the one we must grant ourselves. It is a forgiveness that asks us to see our flaws and still choose love, to recognize our failings and still offer ourselves the gift of hope. Compassion is not a one-time act, but a practice: it is the daily decision to treat ourselves with gentleness, even when we feel least deserving.

Now, when I look back on that day—the sunlight, the storm inside—I see not only the pain, but the path it opened before me. A path that winds through apology, understanding, and gradual self-acceptance. I am not proud of my mistake, but I am grateful for the lesson it taught me: that true compassion begins at home, in the quiet grace we extend to ourselves, even in the shadow of regret.

And as I continue forward, I carry with me the hard-won knowledge that self-kindness is not a luxury, but a necessity. It is the first step toward healing, the gentle soil in which redemption can take root. No matter how grave the error, there is always room for compassion—a light that, once kindled, makes the journey onward not only possible, but deeply human.

Posted on

The Cowgirl

I often bragged to my classmates that I was a “true” cowgirl because I was born in Wyoming and named after my uncle’s horse. That certainly qualified me, right? Inevitably, I would be the best horse rider if given a chance. In fact, one Sunday after church I naively decided to assess my novice riding skills on our neighbor’s horse, Cloudy. She was a young, gentle, smaller horse that let me pet her whenever I wanted. Her coat was steel gray, with patches of white, emulating clouds. Much to my surprise, she did not approve when I walked her next to the fence and jumped on her bareback. She immediately bucked me off into the gravel where I had the wind knocked out of me for at least 10 seconds. I do not exactly remember what happened next, but the line of events led to getting my first (and only) belt spanking. I always assumed the stiff punishment was a result of riding a horse on the Sabbath. It was more likely because I tried to ride a horse that did not belong to me without permission.

Posted on

Year 2: The Path to My Authentic Self

Over the past year, I have documented my journey from a low point to discovering a brighter future. While my story may not be miraculous, it is sincere and intended to inspire others to persevere, even when the end seems out of reach.

As I conclude the first year of sharing my experiences, I am committed to maintaining authenticity with myself and my audience. It is crucial for my readers to understand that their struggles do not define them negatively as individuals. Most importantly, I want people to recognize that each day presents a new opportunity for change. Regardless of one’s circumstances, transformation is possible. I have witnessed individuals transition from incarceration and homelessness to homeownership. Though it may seem implausible, there are countless stories of remarkable personal turnarounds. I aspire to be one of those stories. By sharing my journey, along with the courageous stories of those I have met along the way, I aim to encourage others to embrace their true selves as I navigate the challenges of transitioning from inauthenticity to self-acceptance.

I invite you to join me as I embark on the second year of what I consider an extraordinary life.

Posted on

Self Love

For years, I battled an invisible enemy: my own reflection. Each glance in the mirror shattered the image of the flawless, movie-ready persona I’d painstakingly constructed in my mind. This fictional version of myself—a tall, blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty with effortlessly perfect hair—was my armor. Confronting my true self threatened to erode the fragile confidence I projected to the world. 

In reality, I was a tall woman with big bones and big breasts, hazel eyes, and dirty blonde frizzy hair that refused to cooperate. My fingernails were thin and weak, my wide feet bore the scars of broken pinky toes, and my round face boasted “chipmunk” cheeks.

My nose, though average, always seemed just a bit too large. Despite being underweight at times, my stomach muscles remained elusive, and my style—a mishmash of Gap sale items and occasional splurges from Nordstrom—never felt truly mine. 

Caught between wanting to be a girly-girl and rejecting the tomboy label, I longed to be anyone but myself. I yearned to be shorter, thinner, prettier, classier, petite, and naturally beautiful. Yet, the only thing I could control was my demeanor, and even that felt like a lie. How could I learn to love and accept myself when I couldn’t even bear to look in the mirror? What did others see that I couldn’t? And why was I so terrified of facing the truth? 

The turning point came one bleak winter evening. After an exhausting day at work, I collapsed onto my couch, scrolling aimlessly through social media. Picture after picture showcased lives that seemed perfect—vacations in exotic locations, radiant smiles, flawless bodies. Each post was a painful reminder of what I wasn’t. My chest tightened, and tears welled up in my eyes. 

In the depths of my despair, a thought pierced through the fog of self-loathing: What if I tried to see myself through someone else’s eyes? What if I could capture even a glimpse of the value others might see in me? 

With a surge of determination, I picked up my phone and called my best friend, Lucy. As soon as she answered, I poured out my heart, revealing the insecurities and self-doubt that had plagued me for so long. There was a moment of silence on the other end before she spoke with surprising gentleness. 

“You’re not alone in feeling this way,” Lucy said. “But you need to understand that we love you for who you are, not who you think you should be. You have a heart that’s big enough to hold all our secrets, a laugh that lights up the room, and a strength that inspires us every day.” 

Her words hung in the air, and for the first time, I let them sink in. Maybe, just maybe, there was a different narrative I could embrace—one that didn’t require perfection but celebrated authenticity. 

Over the next few months, I embarked on a journey of self-discovery. It wasn’t easy. There were days when the mirror was still my enemy, and the old doubts crept back in. But I started to make small changes: I practiced gratitude, focusing on the things I appreciated about myself and my life. I surrounded myself with people who uplifted me and made me feel valued. I sought out activities that brought me joy, rather than those I felt I should enjoy to fit a certain mold. 

Slowly, the fictional character I’d created in my mind began to fade, replaced by a more genuine version of myself. I learned to love the things that made me unique—the quirks, the flaws, and the strengths. The mirror no longer held power over me; it became a reflection of the journey I’d undertaken. 

In time, I came to realize that self-love isn’t about achieving a perfect image. It’s about accepting and cherishing who you are, both inside and out. And as I stood in front of the mirror, I smiled—not because I saw a flawless figure, but because I saw someone who was learning to love herself, one day at a time.