This piece was originally written as a therapy prompt—one that asked me to explore how I show up in my body and how to speak to myself with love. It felt vulnerable to write, and even more so to share, but maybe you’ve felt some of this too. I may share more of these soon—small windows into the quiet, honest work of being human. Not because I have the answers, but because I believe in the power of showing up as we are.
Some days, I feel like a stranger in my own skin. Like I’m watching myself live from outside my body, trying to guess what she needs—hoping I get it right. I carry tension in my shoulders, a storm in my chest, and a jaw that stays clenched until I remember to let go. My stomach knots up before my thoughts even catch up. I fidget. I adjust my clothes. I check reflections I didn’t ask for, looking for proof that I’m enough—or at least passable.
It’s exhausting, managing a body that feels both mine and not.
But I’m learning to soften.
I’m learning to talk to myself like someone I love. To place a hand over my heart and whisper, “You’re okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” Even if I don’t fully believe it yet. I’m learning to meet myself where I am—anxious, tired, bloated, beautiful, healing—and say, “Still showing up. Still going.”
Some days that love comes out quiet. A stretch when I’d rather curl up. A smoothie that tastes like dessert but has spinach in it—because, balance. Wearing the soft shirt, the loose pants, the comfy socks. Letting myself rest without earning it.
And some days that love sounds like humor. Like, “Okay, dramatic. You’re bloated, not broken.” Or, “Look at you—an anxious gremlin in cute shoes, still making it happen.” Because if I can’t always be kind, I can at least be funny. And maybe that’s another kind of kindness too. That counts, I think.
I think about how often I’ve said things to myself I’d never say to someone else. Calling myself lazy for needing rest. Ugly for being real. A failure for not “bouncing back.” I wouldn’t talk to a friend that way. So why has it felt normal to talk to myself like that?
When I feel disconnected from my body, I try to come back to it—not to fix it, but to be in it. A walk. A warm shower. A deep breath. A soft blanket. Stillness is hard when you’ve spent most of your life bracing for impact, but I’m learning that it’s not something I have to earn.
Self-love, for me, isn’t loud or linear. It’s found in the small, almost invisible moments: letting myself sleep in, choosing food that fuels me instead of punishing me, letting a photo exist without editing it, saying “no” without guilt. It’s in the days I choose to speak gently to myself instead of picking myself apart.
Some days, I still struggle. Some days, I still want to disappear. But I show up. In this skin. With this heart. With these stories, this softness, this strength.
And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe I am enough.
