It happened last night, between the manic, whirling gusts of icy-cold wind.

A feathery little magic moment landed right onto the exhausted, dewy leaves of my soul.

It shook me up, kissed my lips sweetly, and left me breathless.

I didn’t know it yet, but this little magic moment would reveal itself as a long-awaited answer to a burning-hot question of mine:

Why does working on myself hurt so f*cking much?

Wait—

Let’s unwrap the caramel-candy deliciousness of this moment slowly.

I was buried deep under my blankets, drinking decaf tea, watching Netflix.

I thoughtlessly twirled my hair and suddenly my hands discovered these huge nest-like knots hanging near the nape of my neck.

Annoyed and impatient, I grabbed a hairbrush, ready to wage war against my wavy, tangled tresses.

But, I stopped.

My heart told me to stop.

She said: Please don’t wield your brush like a reckless sword, fiercely battling the out-of-control wheat field in your hair.

She said: Be gentle. Comb through each strand lovingly, like a spatula slowly stirring luscious melted milk chocolate.

I listened.

And licked my lips a little.

I took small sections of my naughty, knotted hair, and did as my heart instructed.

I didn’t rush, or pull or push.

I took it one tangle at a time, one strand at a time.

I breathed in and I knew:

This is exactly how I need to work on myself.

Gently, supportively, kindly, lovingly, patiently.

This is the path to true transformation.

I forget.

Because it can feel so much easier to work on myself recklessly, violently, carelessly.

To criticize and chastise my wounds while I’m slogging through the shit in my soul.

To become disgusted and ashamed as I confront the dark, slimy demons in my heart.

No more.

Because when I look with soft, caring eyes, I see that the shit in my soul is actually just fear and those demons in my heart are actually just scared little girls, shaking and shivering in the freezing cold winter wind.

They need love, not criticism.

They need so much love. And a thousand cups of chamomile tea. And several hundred spoonfuls of Nutella.

So—from now on, I vow:

If I am to work on myself, then I must do it kindly.

Yes!

I must go slowly and patiently as I’m peeling back layers and peering into my juicy soul.

I must wrap my wounds in soft, silky blankets while I’m drudging up clunky old suitcases stuffed with grief.

I must hug my heart when she’s breaking, beating so fast and being shy.

I must do all this and more—because I need my own love and support so f*cking badly when I’m working hard on healing and transforming myself.

Because that kind of unconditional love and unwavering support is the most important work of all.

Listen to your heart.

What does she say?

What does she whisper in rhythm with her soulful beats?

Listen to your heart.

She’s wicked wise.

Relephant: 

I Don’t Want to be a Perfect Woman.

Author: Tricia Dycka

Editor: Travis May

Photo: Helga Weber on Flickr