Learning to Be Kind to Yourself

I’ve spent most of my life being harder on myself than anyone else ever could be. And let’s be real: that’s saying something, because the world isn’t exactly gentle with people like us. But somewhere along the way - between the chaos of my twenties, the grief of the 80s, the slow burn of adulthood, and the ongoing wrestling match with depression and anxiety - I realized something I wish I’d learned decades earlier.

Being kind to yourself isn’t indulgent. It isn’t selfish. It isn’t weakness.

It’s survival.

And yet, it’s one of the hardest damn things to do.

We’re taught from a young age to push, to strive, to hustle, to “be strong,” to “shake it off,” to “get over it.” We’re told that rest is laziness, that vulnerability is embarrassing, that asking for help is some kind of moral failure. And if you grow up queer in the era I did, you learn to armor up even more. You learn to anticipate judgment before it arrives. You learn to apologize for taking up space.

You learn to turn the knife inward long before you ever point it outward.

So yeah, being kind to yourself? It feels unnatural. It feels like speaking a language you were never taught.

But here’s the truth I keep coming back to: if you don’t learn to treat yourself with compassion, the world will eat you alive. And you’ll help it.

Kindness toward yourself isn’t about bubble baths or scented candles—though God knows I’m not knocking either. It’s about giving yourself permission to be human. To be flawed. To be tired. To be grieving. To be healing. To be in progress. To be a mess. To be magnificent. To be all of it at once.

It’s about recognizing that you are not a machine built for productivity. You are a person. A complicated, emotional, beautifully imperfect person.

And you deserve the same grace you offer everyone else.

I’ve spent years telling friends to take care of themselves, to rest, to breathe, to stop beating themselves up. I’ve written paragraphs of encouragement to people I barely know. I’ve held space for others in their darkest moments. But when it comes to myself? I’ve been stingy. Brutal, even. I’ve held myself to standards I would never impose on another living soul.

And I know I’m not alone in that.

So let me say this plainly, in case you need to hear it the way I needed to hear it:

You are allowed to be gentle with yourself.

You are allowed to forgive yourself.

You are allowed to rest.

You are allowed to not be okay.

You are allowed to take up space.

You are allowed to be loved, by others and by yourself.

Being kind to yourself doesn’t mean you stop growing. It means you stop bleeding for the sake of growth.

It means you stop treating your life like a punishment.

It means you stop believing the lie that you have to earn your own compassion.

And look, I’m not pretending I’ve mastered this. I still wake up some mornings ready to wage war against myself. I still hear the old voices telling me I’m not doing enough, not achieving enough, not being enough. But I’m learning, slowly and stubbornly, to talk back. To soften. To breathe. To give myself the same patience I give everyone else.

Some days I succeed. Some days I don’t. But the effort itself is a kind of kindness.

So if you’re reading this and thinking, “Yeah, but I don’t deserve that,” let me stop you right there. You do. You absolutely do. Not because you’ve earned it, not because you’ve achieved something, not because you’ve checked all the boxes on some imaginary list.

You deserve kindness because you’re human. Full stop.

And if no one has told you that lately, let me be the one to say it.

Be kind to yourself. Not someday. Not when you’ve “fixed” yourself. Not when you feel better. Not when you’ve accomplished something impressive.

Now. Today. In the middle of the mess.

You’re worth that much.