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This is for anyone who struggles with her inner mean girl.
A few weeks ago, I didn't show up the way I wanted to in an interaction with my wife. And true to form, shame immediately rolled in, which triggered self-flagellation, which triggered reactivity (aka total bitch mode.)
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My usual move is to distract from all of it: dive into work, doom scroll, eat leftover cupcakes, do anything that keeps me from having to actually sit with what happened.
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But this time I did something different. I went to get a pedicure.
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I haven't had one in two years, not since my kids were born. The idea of sitting in a salon chair felt self-indulgent, expensive; frivolous even. Which is exactly why I went. I walked in thinking of it as exposure therapy. The time in the chair would be my meditation.
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And like most of my meditations, it was genuinely hard.
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The moment I sat down, my mind flooded with everything I should be doing instead. The to-do list, the guilt, the low-grade hum of you don't have time for this.
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So I made a decision: every time a thought like that surfaced, I would drop into my body instead of following it. Deep breaths. Feet on the ground. And then - the harder part - I tried to flood myself with compassion. Not the easy, conceptual kind, but the physical kind. Letting warmth actually move through me. Letting myself be held by the moment rather than fighting it.
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It wasn't graceful. Self-compassion is not second nature for me. Finding ways to love myself because of my imperfections, not just in spite of them, is some of the hardest work I do. But I stayed in the chair.
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Now my toes are a beautiful burgundy, and as I keep looking down at them, the irony is not lost on me: our feet are where we meet the ground. They're how we stay connected to the earth beneath us.
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So every time I catch a glimpse of that color, I get a little flash of what it felt like to choose myself that afternoon. To sit in the discomfort and stay anyway. To decide that the mess I'd made didn't make me unworthy of care.
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That's the practice. Not perfection. Just returning, again and again, to the choice to be gentle with yourself, especially when you least feel like you've earned it.
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βKey takeaways:
- The container matters. We can't always manufacture the conditions for self-compassion, but sometimes we can find a physical space that forces us to slow down long enough to try. The salon chair worked because I literally couldn't leave. Whatever your version of that is (a walk, a bath, a drive with no destination) find the container that makes the work possible.
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- Discomfort doesn't require escape. My default is to treat emotional discomfort like a fire alarm: something to flee immediately. But when I stayed with it instead, when I breathed into it and let it be there, it didn't consume me. It moved. That's the thing about feelings: they're designed to pass through, not take up permanent residence.
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- Repetition is the whole point. Self-compassion, like any practice, only becomes more natural with use. One pedicure didn't rewire my nervous system. But it added one more rep to a muscle I'm trying to build, and that counts.
Which brings me to the actual practice I used in that chair. I'm sharing it here in case you want to try it; you don't need a pedicure, just a few minutes and a willingness to be a little uncomfortable.
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A meditation for when you're hard on yourself:
Settle into your seat and feel the ground rising up to meet your body. Let yourself be held.
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Notice your shame spiral; not to judge it, just to name it. Oh, hey you. That pattern again.
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Now begin to flood your body with feelings of love and gratitude. Get specific and physical about it: Where do you feel it? Is it warmth in your chest, a softening behind your eyes, a loosening in your throat? What color is it? What texture? Let it be as real and sensory as you can make it.
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If directing that love toward yourself feels impossible right now - and sometimes it does - start somewhere easier.
Think of someone or something you love without complication: a child, a pet, a moment that still makes you smile. Let that feeling fill you completely.
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Then try redirecting just a tiny piece of it back toward yourself. Not all of it. Just a sliver. See if you can hold it.
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Every time your mind pops up with something to say - you should have known better, you always do this - gently thank it for doing its job and bring your attention back to the feeling. Your mind is trying to protect you. You don't have to fight it. Just keep returning.
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When you're ready to close, wiggle your fingers and toes. Take a deep breath. Feel your feet on the floor. You're still here. You're okay.
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Your turn:
- What's your default escape hatch when discomfort shows up? Work, scrolling, food, something else?
- When did you last do something that felt "frivolous" - and what story did you tell yourself about whether you deserved it?
- Is there a physical sensation you associate with self-compassion? If not, what might it feel like if you let yourself imagine it?
- What would it mean to treat your imperfections as reasons for self-care rather than reasons to withhold it?
- Where in your body do you feel shame first - and what does it need when it arrives?
I'm curious: what's your version of the nail salon? Is there a ritual or a space that helps you come back to yourself when you've gone sideways? Hit reply and tell me β I read every response.
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Now go get paid.
x Claire
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P.S. Check out The Practice, my deck of cards that transforms negative self-talk into ultimate self-trust...in 30 days π€
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