self love isn’t a finished product.

i take vyvanse.

and zoloft.

and wellbutrin.

i have a therapist.

and a psychiatrist.

i see them regularly.

i know my triggers. i know my patterns. i know my attachment style. i can tell you exactly why something activated me and probably trace it back to a very specific moment in childhood.

and sometimes i still completely lose my shit.

because apparently knowing why you’re spiraling does not, in fact, stop the spiral. rude.

i still overthink.

i still get overwhelmed.

i still need reassurance.

i still have days where my brain feels like 47 browser tabs are open and one of them is playing music but i cannot figure out which fucking one.

i still say yes when i should say no.

i still have to catch myself apologizing for taking up space.

i still look in the mirror some days and have complicated feelings about the woman looking back at me.

i still compare.

i still shut down.

i still occasionally need my therapist to lovingly point out something i absolutely already knew but was apparently hoping did not apply to me personally.

and for a long time, i thought all of that meant i wasn't doing the work correctly.

because we talk about healing like there’s a graduation ceremony.

do the therapy. take the medication. learn the boundaries. love yourself. heal.

and eventually you become this emotionally regulated woman who drinks enough water, communicates flawlessly, has a beautiful morning routine and responds to every inconvenience with a deep breath and a journal prompt.

i have some unfortunate news.

she’s not fucking coming.

and thank god.

because i don't think self love is becoming a version of yourself who no longer needs help.

i think self love is finally believing you're worth helping.

it’s taking the medication.

making the appointment.

telling the truth in therapy instead of giving your therapist the polished version.

going back next week.

saying “i’m struggling” before you’re completely underwater.

learning your patterns and having compassion for yourself when you occasionally repeat one anyway.

it’s understanding that needing support isn't evidence that you're failing.

sometimes it’s evidence that you're finally taking yourself seriously.

i used to think loving myself would mean eventually becoming someone i found easy to love.

now i think it means refusing to abandon myself on the days that i’m not.

the anxious me. the overstimulated me. the insecure me. the medicated me. the me who needs therapy. the me who knows better and occasionally still does the fucking thing.

her too. especially her.

because maybe the goal was never to get my shit completely together.

maybe the goal was to stop hating myself every time it falls apart.

i still don't have it all together. but i finally have me.

and i think (surprise) that's kind of the point.