Loving myself didn’t come naturally. It came in pieces.
In the beginning, it looked like survival—taking my meds, going to therapy, saying no to things that drained me. It was practical. Mechanical. A checklist of things I was told to do to “get better.”
But over time, it started to change.
It looked like not criticizing myself for having a bad day. It looked like buying flowers just because. Like dancing in the kitchen when no one was watching. Like choosing the quiet instead of filling the silence with noise that numbed me.
It looked like forgiving myself for the years I treated my body like a battleground.
Like choosing people who didn’t ask me to be less.
Like resting without guilt.
Like not shrinking when I entered a room.
Loving myself now doesn’t mean I never struggle. It means I no longer tie my worth to how well I perform, how well I hide the hard days, how easy I am to love.
I don’t love myself because I healed.
I love myself while I heal.
That’s the difference.
That’s the freedom.
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