I emphatically believed I did not—capital- or lowercase-L love myself for two decades. After all, how could I, with these thoughts that said, “You’re an idiot,” and “What’s wrong with you,” pinballing around in my racing mind?
Despite self-love’s deep and meaningful history (hello, Jesus, Aristotle, the Beat Generation …), I mostly equated self-love with a reason to buy expensive skincare and take vacations. And I was all for it for everyone except me. I decided these semi-euphoric states of being (dressed in aesthetic athleisurewear and sipping artful matcha lattes) seemed not only effortful but also unrealistic—another way to capitalize on low self-esteem.
Because who actually loves themselves, am I right?
Aren’t we all just a bunch of whackos carrying around a relentless level of low-grade shame? And really, doesn’t loving yourself mean you’ve given up on improving? After all, isn’t motivation driven solely by self-loathing and anxiety?
So I called bullshit on self-love—just another buzzy phrase for something we’re all striving for that no one can realistically achieve—a horizon line siren song calling us to buy more and feel more and, and, and …
I see my cynicism in hindsight.
Throughout those years, I’d glimpsed self-love, yet I shook it off and called them exceptions—‘self-love light.’ These moments did not look, feel, or sound like my idealized definition, so they couldn’t be THE self-love.
Then, a couple of years ago, I asked my husband whether he loved himself; his reply was immediate and nonchalant.
“Yeah, of course.”
I was shook. Like, WHAT do you mean ‘of course’?
But of course, he loves himself—he is awesome, and you are not awesome—DUH.
Then I asked my mom last year, who replied that she, too, loves herself.
But of course, she loves herself, I thought—she is awesome, and you are the opposite of that—DUH.
Then, several months ago, I asked my best friend if she loves herself, assuming she would agree with me on my horizon line self-love theory.
“No,” she replied, tilting her head thoughtfully, “I definitely love myself.”
But of course, she loves herself! She is awesome, and I … wait a minute …
I was three for three and surprised by their answers, not because I believe they shouldn’t love themselves but because this concept, which had seemed so removed from me for so long (an idea for celebrities, monks, and influencers only), was right here, alive in some of my closest people.
It seems silly now that I asked outright, but I truly did not know.
I simultaneously knew they loved themselves and thought I could not, just as much as I could accept that self-love existed and remain steadfast in my lack of it. Because, of course, they deserved to love themselves for any number of reasons, yet I could find none for me. Where was the evidence?
But their answers widened a small space of knowing within me—a space to question my stubborn belief that I could not and would never know self-love. I’d been walking around baffled that people all had this thing that I ‘didn’t,’ certain I would always be life-jacketless in a world of life-jacketed optimists.
But I am not so special, and in these last months, based on my extensive crowd-sourcing, I’ve begun to wonder whether:
A. I don’t love myself, and I’m an anomaly.
B. I don’t love myself, and everyone else is hyperbolic.
C. I actually do love myself, and my definition just sucks.
I like C.
I find what I focus on, and now, when I look back on my choices—many of them decidedly not self-loving—I realize self-love was there from the very start.
These are the questions I ask now, slowly revising my definition of self-love so that I might find myself within its truth.
Where does self-love begin?
If I looked solely at the beginnings of things, I would not find self-love. The beginnings of my eating disorders, drinking, and drugging. The beginnings of emotionally abusive relationships in my teens, cruel thoughts, and endless bad decisions. I was confident that if I truly loved myself, I wouldn’t have done any of those things at all, and my leaving was only a matter of tolerance and self-preservation, mutually exclusive from self-love.
And if I ask where self-love begins, I find another question.
What if self-love begins in the ending?
What if self-love is not the absence of self-hate but the presence of love despite it? An and, not an or. I began things that hurt me and stayed in them longer than necessary, and the ending was an act of self-love.
Because self-love was there in each ending, guiding me out the door. Self-love coaxed me along after each sleeping-in-until-two hungover afternoon; she sat next to me and held my pinky when it seemed there was only darkness. She was quieter than ego, addiction, and the rest, yet each time I willed myself to listen, she whispered, “It’s time to leave,” “You can do this,” and “You’re ready.”
The quietness of my self-love leads me to my next question.
How does self-love sound?
I thought self-love could only be loud and proud, vibrant, consistent, and congratulatory—anything else was an imposter, more ‘self-love light.’
Now I know she can be subtle, gentle, and blurry, not needing to dominate to prove she exists.
Devin and I walk down the beach to go surfing. We were coming out of a four-day virtual seminar on raising your energy, neuro-linguistic programming, and personal development. I’m hyped up from being inundated with the fist-pumping, boisterous self-love I’ve mostly only known from afar. I feel invincible, determined to never return to my old ways again.
And yet.
We paddle out, and as tends to happen, he starts catching all the waves and doing all the cool surfer things. Shame begins playing its tune; the song that gets stuck in my head on repeat kicks right back on, vying for my attention, beckoning with its easy slipping into the future or past—anywhere but the present.
Then self-love firmly yet kindly sing-songs, “Nothing you can do about all that, hun—life is happening now, not then” (because sometimes my self-love sounds like Dolly Parton, apparently). Self-love doesn’t fight back or zealously insist I return to the present moment. She doesn’t argue, pump her fist, or say, “You’ve got this!”
All she says is the simple truth: I can stay stuck in the past and trip along into the future or just be here.
The above brings me to my final question.
What if, sometimes, self-love is only doing the bare minimum to keep you alive, which itself is a radical act of love?
If you asked me whether I loved myself even a year ago, depending on the day, you would have gotten a “Maybe” at best and a definitive “What the hell is self-love” at worst. Through the worst, most painful storms, I couldn’t understand that:
Sometimes, self-love is just getting out of bed.
Sometimes, self-love is washing your hair and brushing your teeth.
Sometimes, self-love is the willingness to take it just one hour at a time.
Now, I recognize self-love in the small steps and soft words throughout my life. I see self-love in the slow, tedious, ending and re-ending, there in each two-week or two-month sobriety stint before I went back—before I left for good. Self-love is not a horizon line but a lighthouse whose glow is always there when I look hard enough.
Self-love brings my hand to my heart out in the line-up, not to argue with the other thoughts but to be a voice of reason among them—my little shmoos who set fires and send up smoke signals love a challenge. Love doesn’t look at the smoke or the fire; love reminds me it’s as simple as walking away from the burning.
She reminds me, “You can find whatever you’re looking for. Why not look for everything beautiful and vibrant and wonderful instead?”
“Once you begin to recognise the divine gifts in life, you come to see that there are so many. Your life is abundant.”
I listen to the gusting side shore winds sending chill deep into my bones, finding stillness enough to admire the sun shining on my face. I notice my hands, the wonder of electric blue water, and the pure magic of my being here in this moment, everything that has conspired toward my arrival at this beach in this place on this day.
All this time, I’d defined self-love through extrapolated interpretations beyond myself. When I looked outward, I believed self-love could only sound, feel, and look one very narrow way and only be present if I were thriving.
I catch more and more waves, flailing my arms, shivering with cold, paddling crazily. I ride my final wave in—a left—to shore, skimming over the ‘rock garden’—my name for the outcrop of coral heads just inches below the water, a lovely name for a treacherous stretch. I fly off my board with arms and legs spread wide, floating the inches between my body and safety. Just as I think I’ve managed to walk away from this session unscathed, a sharp rock thinly slices my shin, leaving a long red line.
I walk up the sand, lying my board flat as the wind swirls and whistles; the sun burns away clouds and blazes on my skin. While Devin finds his final wave, I collapse backward, face up to the heat: grateful, tired, and patient, knowing self-love is always there so long as I am willing to listen.
Very beautiful. Thank you.