When I tell people I used to be my worst critic, they usually nod politely, assuming they know the story: high-achieving kid, perfectionist tendencies, climbing ladders with no ceilings. Check, check, check. But what they don’t know—and what took me years to admit, even to myself—is that beneath the polished Scottsdale golf-resort upbringing and the MBA on my wall, I wasn’t chasing excellence. I was chasing worthiness.
The funny thing about self-acceptance is that no one really teaches you how to do it. It’s like trying to find your way out of Ikea without a floor plan. Sure, there are signs (and occasionally a friendly Swede points you in the right direction), but the journey’s a dizzying maze of stumbling into displays you didn’t ask for. For me, "loving myself" wasn’t an inspiring Pinterest quote I could pin to my mental corkboard. It was trial and error, cacti and sweat, a lot of overanalyzing bad first dates, and one transformative moment of realizing, “Oh wait—it’s not about fixing everything."
Here’s how I got there—and how, in turn, you can too.
The Desert Mirage of Perfection
Growing up in Scottsdale, I was surrounded by curated perfection. Pristine golf courses, artfully xeriscaped lawns, and brunch buffets featuring omelets cooked to-order—nothing felt out of place. But when you’re raised in a world where appearances are everything, you start to believe your worth is directly proportional to how polished you can make yourself.
I baked this idea deep into my personality. In college, it meant setting up color-coded spreadsheets for group projects (and redoing other people’s messy slides, of course). Later, in relationships, it looked like trying to perform “ideal boyfriend,” bending over backward to be romantic, funny, and supportive, but constantly second-guessing whether I was enough. Sure, every compliment I received felt good, but my mind worked overtime to disprove it. After all, my inner critic was undefeated—and she was ruthless. (Yes, my inner critic is a “she.” I named her Cheryl. No shade to "real-life" Cheryls, but mine’s got a Starbucks menu of snarky comments ready at all times.)
Here’s the kicker: chasing perfection will leave you parched. It’s like trying to hydrate with a mirage in the desert—forever reaching but never fulfilled.
The Beauty in Getting Lost
I didn’t have a singular epiphany about self-love where light beamed down and I suddenly felt like Beyoncé in "Flawless." (Though, seriously, how great would that be?) Mine came in stages, mostly because I tend to overthink everything and need lessons repeated.
The first major turning point was realizing I hadn’t given myself permission to just be. I was always striving—be better at my job, be a better wingman to my single friends, be someone who never forgot to take the trash out. But what about being...well, me? I kept glossing over flaws the way Instagram lets you smooth your skin out with filters. And while flawless skin might win you likes, it doesn't win you self-acceptance.
The big breakthrough happened during a solo road trip through northern Arizona, driving through red-rock country with my phone on airplane mode. After years of amplifying everyone else’s opinions, all I could hear was my own voice. The voice wasn’t perfect—it sounded unsure, questioning everything—but for once, it was mine. And that’s when I realized: maybe self-love isn’t about becoming someone better. Maybe it’s about finally listening to yourself without interruption.
The Five Cacti of Self-Love (Yes, Really)
When I was sitting on a rock in Sedona, I found myself staring at a cluster of cacti—not exactly groundbreaking, I know. But the more I looked, the more they taught me about how resilient imperfection can be. They don’t bother trying to be roses or redwoods; they thrive by being exactly what they are: prickly, oddly shaped, thriving against all odds. Over the years, I’ve cultivated my “five cacti of self-love”—mental reminders that help me stay grounded:
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Prune What Doesn’t Nourish You
Bad habits. Toxic comparisons. Cheryl the Inner Critic. Recognizing what’s holding you back is step one. For me, it meant becoming mindful of how I constantly sought approval instead of inviting growth on my own terms. -
Give Yourself Time to Grow
Cacti don’t sprout overnight, and neither does self-acceptance. Some days are setbacks. Some days, your inner Cheryl calls you a fraud while you’re brushing your teeth. But growth is about consistency, not speed. -
Celebrate Your Weird Corners
Ever notice how cacti have all these awkward arms jutting out, defying symmetry like they’re flipping physics the metaphorical bird? Your quirks—whether that means making bad puns on dates (guilty) or finding joy in niche hobbies—are your superpowers. Lean into them. -
Be Weatherproof, Not Perfect
Cacti have built-in resilience. They don’t panic in 110-degree heat; they adapt. You’re not going to eliminate criticism, rejection, or failure from life, but loving yourself means learning to bounce back from them. -
Remember: You’re a Damn Mood
Every time I see a cactus backlit by a vibrant desert sunset, I pause to admire how unapologetically itself it is. Commit to being the cactus in someone’s sunset shot. You’re not here to be flawless, you’re here to be unforgettable.
From Flawed to Familiar
Once I stopped chasing the fantasy of falling in love with a “perfect” me, I found something even better: familiarity. Self-love isn’t always fireworks; it’s knowing how to comfort yourself on tough days, how to laugh when an awkward memory pops into your head, and how to dance (maybe badly) when you’re alone in the kitchen. It’s keeping yourself company—and actually liking the company.
Humor helps. Whenever Cheryl pipes up these days, I ask myself: “Would a stranger in line at the grocery store say this to me?” Nope? Then it’s not worth listening to. I also keep a running list of “things I like about myself” on my phone—yes, it sounds weird, but it works. Pro tip: start small (“That shirt did look great on me today”) and expand as you go.
The Romance of You
Here’s the thing about self-acceptance: it’s the foundation for every other connection you’ll forge. Until you’re at least halfway on good terms with yourself, every relationship, friendship, and even job will feel like you’re wearing someone else’s shoes—almost right but never quite comfortable.
By learning to love myself, I stopped expecting perfection from everyone else, too. I approach new relationships with curiosity rather than fear of judgment. And more importantly, I’ve learned that love—real, lasting love—always feels like home.
So, to anyone on their own journey to self-acceptance, know this: you’re not broken or lost. You’re just figuring out your version of the map. And sometimes, the most beautiful moments on the trail aren’t the well-marked ones—they’re the ones where you pause, catch a glimpse of yourself reflected back in the scenery, and think, “Hey, that’s someone worth loving.”
Now go be the cactus. 🌵
