The last eighteen months of therapy, my therapist has consistently spoken to me about self-compassion. If you’re anything like me, you know developing self-compassion is akin to meditation—you want to convince yourself you’re doing it right, but your brain highjacks every attempt, suggesting it might be more fun to spend the evening taking shots of self-loathing as you re-examine every mistake you’ve made over the course of your lifetime.
For most of my life, I’ve listened and supported those around me, even in some of their darkest moments. I believe, for the most part, people mean well. I don’t think people are living their lives with the intention of being cruel or hurtful to others, and I’m aware it is impossible to go through life without hurting other people. When it happens, I assume (generally) best intent.
I believe people have the capacity to change because I’ve watched other people change and work through challenges. It takes years of intentional work, but I’m a sucker for a comeback story and will root for the anti-hero every time. While my compassion for others at times feels boundless, self-compassion is a different story.
Self-compassion is challenging when I’m my own harshest critic and aware of all my flaws and shortcomings. When other people share their stories, I’m not privy to every thought, action, or error they’ve made in their lives. I know only the little piece of themselves they choose to share whereas I’m in my brain all the time. I have a laundry list of every time I’ve fucked up.
If my life prior to the last few years was a book, my character would be the one you’re probably rooting for but perpetually annoyed with wondering how she can possibly make the same mistakes so many times. SUPER annoying for the reader, but imagine being the character. You desperately want to be the protagonist, but you’re not. You’re the anti-hero.