Dear friend,
I have been thinking lately about how easily we can become accustomed to speaking harshly to ourselves. We can do it so often that eventually we barely even notice it anymore. We look in the mirror and immediately find something wrong. We get dressed and criticize the way our clothes fit. We eat something we had promised ourselves we would not eat, and before we have even finished it, the words start. Why did you do that? Why can’t you just get it together? You know better than this. Sometimes those words are so familiar that they almost feel normal.
I know that voice because I have lived with it for a very long time.
For years, I thought being hard on myself was somehow necessary. I thought if I stopped criticizing myself, I might become complacent. Maybe I would stop trying. Maybe I needed that disappointment and frustration to keep pushing me toward becoming healthier or finally becoming the woman I thought I should be. There was always this underlying belief that kindness toward myself had to be earned. I could give myself grace once I lost the weight, once I became disciplined, once I looked better, once I finally proved that I could stick with something. Until then, I thought pressure was what I needed.
But I am beginning to understand something very different.
You can want to change something about your life without being cruel to yourself in the process.
That sounds so simple when I write it, but I don't think it has always been simple for me to believe. There have been times when I have looked at myself and thought, You should have done this years ago. You are behind. You are getting older. Why do you keep doing this? Even when I was doing well, I could find a way to take the joy out of it. Instead of being proud that I was taking care of myself, I would think about how much further I had to go or wonder how long I would actually keep it up this time.
Maybe you know that feeling too.
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if another woman sat across from me and told me all the things I have told myself over the years. If she told me she felt ashamed of her body, that she had started and stopped more times than she could count, that she had eaten because she was sad or overwhelmed, that she was disappointed in herself and afraid she would never change, I know I wouldn't look at her and say, Well, you should be ashamed. You should have figured this out by now.
I wouldn't talk to her that way.
I would probably listen. I would want to know what she had been carrying. I would remind her that struggling does not erase her worth. I would tell her that tomorrow does not have to be another punishment for what happened today. I would want her to know that she can begin taking care of herself from a place of love instead of disgust.
And lately I have found myself asking why it has been so difficult to offer that same kindness to the woman in my own mirror.
I think this matters spiritually too. Scripture tells us that we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works (Ephesians 2:10). And 1 Corinthians 6:19–20 reminds us that our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit and that we belong to God. I have read verses like these before, but I am learning to hear them differently. If I truly believe that my body belongs to God, then the way I speak about it matters. The way I speak to myself matters too.
That doesn't mean pretending everything is fine when it isn't. Grace isn't denial. There are things about the way I have cared for myself that I genuinely want to change. I want to become stronger. I want to make healthier choices. I want to move my body, nourish it well, rest when I need rest, and become more disciplined in the ways that matter. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life believing that I have to hate myself into becoming healthier.
I have tried that.
It may work for a little while. Shame can get you through a workout. It can make you swear off certain foods. It can convince you to start another plan on Monday morning. But shame is a terrible place to build a life. Eventually you get tired of living with someone who is constantly disappointed in you, especially when that someone is you.
So I am trying something different now.
I am learning to notice the words I say to myself before I automatically believe them. When I hear you've ruined everything, I want to answer, No, I had a difficult moment. I can make a different choice next. When I hear you should be further along by now, I want to remember that there is no deadline for learning how to care for the life God has given me. When I look in the mirror and immediately begin searching for everything I wish were different, I want to remember that the woman looking back at me is not an enemy who needs to be defeated. She is someone God has entrusted to my care.
And friend, the same is true for you.
You don't have to pretend to love every part of your body today. You don't have to stand in front of the mirror and convince yourself of something you don't yet believe. Maybe the beginning is much quieter than that. Maybe today you simply refuse to say something cruel. Maybe you catch one harsh thought and replace it with something true. Maybe instead of asking, What is wrong with me? you ask, What do I need right now to care for myself well?
I think those small moments matter more than we realize.
There is a way to pursue change without declaring war on yourself. There is a way to become disciplined without becoming punishing. There is a way to acknowledge that you want something to be different while still treating yourself with dignity today.
I am learning that too.
And perhaps that is part of what grace looks like here. Not giving up on ourselves. Not pretending our choices don't matter. But refusing to believe that cruelty is the price we have to pay for change.
So this week, pay attention to the way you speak to yourself. Not so you can judge yourself for that too, but simply so you can hear it. And when that familiar harsh voice begins, imagine for just a moment that the woman hearing those words is someone you deeply love.
Because she should be.
​

With grace,

Autumn-Body Grace Letters