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 kn...