The Mirror on the Wall Moment
Let me start with the truth: I didn’t always like me. Not in the “we’re all a work in progress” way people toss around at rooftop parties in Santa Monica after their second glass of sparkling rosé. No, this was more like a full-on staring contest with my reflection where the reflection kept winning. For years, I outsourced my self-worth. To relationships, achievements, even Instagram likes. And spoiler alert: outsourcing is great for your taxes but terrible for your soul.
Santa Barbara, where I grew up, is a gorgeous cage. Sure, it’s paradise in pictures—the ocean, the mountains, the wine—but when you live there, the pressure to be as flawless as the view can sneak up on you. Even as a teenager I had this persistent feeling of not being enough. Not funny enough, not driven enough, not—this one killed me—surf-y enough. (For a kid growing up on the California coast, that last sin was practically unforgivable.) This inner dialogue, plus attending a boarding school where even casual conversations felt like cover letters, set me up for a long-term romantic entanglement with self-doubt.
So how did I learn to love myself? Well, it wasn’t swift or straightforward. It took years and a few awkward conversations with friends, strangers, and, oddly enough, a tarot reader. But I’ll spare you a 6,000-word confessional. Instead, I want to share the key moments and lessons that helped me, because I suspect they might just help you too.
Redefining Success So It Doesn’t Eat You Alive
One of my wake-up calls came in my early 20s, right after I’d graduated from UC Santa Barbara. I was working at an environmental consultancy and writing grant proposals that would make anyone yawn, myself included. I convinced myself I was doing it for "the planet"—because nothing's sexier than biosphere restoration—but deep down, I hated how compressed I’d made my own dreams.
You know that scene in Mad Men where Don Draper says, “What is happiness? It’s a moment before you need more happiness”? That was me. Except I wasn’t Don Draper. I was some guy rewriting wetlands policy while googling how to get published in The New Yorker. My definition of success—saving the earth by day and becoming the next Didion by night—was crushing me. So I took a page from the sustainability playbook and started asking, "What if I shifted to smaller, sustainable wins?”
I began journaling lists of everything that made me feel alive: writing essays, walking along the beach, learning how to cook (sorry, Mom, for setting off every smoke detector that summer). The act of documenting small victories felt strangely rebellious. By the time I left my consultancy to pursue a Master’s in creative writing, I’d already started to believe something radical: my worth didn’t have to hinge on accolades or existential feats of heroism. I could matter, even if I didn’t have it all figured out.
Why Comparison Is Like Eating Gas Station Sushi
Santa Monica, where I live now, is one of those cities where it’s impossible to walk into a coffee shop without overhearing someone pitching a TV pilot. Being around this kind of energy is inspiring—until it’s not. I couldn’t order a flat white without spiraling into self-criticism on why I wasn’t producing more, earning more, or achieving more.
And here’s the thing about comparing yourself to other people all the time: it never ends well. It’s like eating gas station sushi at 1 a.m.—a bad idea that leaves you feeling queasy and full of regret. What really flipped the switch for me was something simple but profound: focusing on my own lane instead of rubbernecking onto someone else’s.
I started unfollowing accounts on social media that gave off unattainably polished vibes (bye, influencers). Instead, I sought out voices that were raw, honest, and imperfect—authors, comedians, and other creatives who weren’t afraid to share their messy in-between moments. It made me realize I was missing the beauty in my own narrative because I was so fixated on everyone else’s highlight reel.
Flirting With Failure
I once read somewhere that you can’t practice self-love without accepting failure as part of the package deal. I hate how true this is. As a recovering perfectionist, screwing up made my skin crawl. And the thing is, relationships are where my inner perfectionist really liked to show up. I tried to be the funny one, the witty one, the supportive one—basically, a one-man emotional Swiss Army knife.
But when my longest relationship ended in my late 20s, I was forced to sit with the fact that I had no idea how to show up for myself, flaws and all. I’d been so busy trying to meet everyone else’s expectations that I’d forgotten what it felt like just to be me.
Cue my experiment with solo dates. I’m sure this sounds odd, but hear me out—taking myself out for a quiet meal, or to a museum, forced me to confront those shadowy corners of my personality. I stopped punishing myself for botched punchlines or awkward social moments. In fact, once I started embracing my quirks, I realized they were what made me—well, me.
Now, instead of seeing failure as some big, scary monster, I look at it like the weird uncle at Thanksgiving. He says some awkward stuff, sure, but he’s still family. And loving myself means loving the whole package, even the weird bits.
Building a Self-Care Routine That Doesn’t Feel Like a Chore
When people talk about self-care, it’s often in terms of bubble baths or yoga retreats—basically things that cost way too much and leave you feeling mildly guilty for being so indulgent. But for me, real self-care started with something far less glamorous: boundaries.
Learning to say “no” was a game-changer. I stopped agreeing to every coffee meeting or late-night brainstorm session, and it freed up so much mental space. I also created a ritual of what I call “tactile grounding,” which is just a fancy way of saying I go outside. Nature, unsurprisingly, became my therapy. Whether it’s walking along the Santa Monica boardwalk or hiking in Malibu, getting back to the ocean and the earth reminds me that I’m more interconnected than my brain usually lets me believe.
Embrace Your Inner Californian Zen
Look, I’ll be the first to admit there’s something painfully cliché about the whole “California Zen” aesthetic. The kombucha brewers. The crystal shops. The yoga influencers who live in perpetual downward dog. But there’s some truth buried in that stereotype—the kind that hits you when you slow down long enough to feel the small joys in life.
For me, it’s watching the sunset over the Pacific after a particularly long writing day, or hearing Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours spin on vinyl in the background while I unwittingly torch yet another dinner experiment. These little joys remind me that self-love isn’t some grand destination. It’s a practice, an ongoing relationship with the most important person in my life: myself.
Here’s the bottom line: loving yourself is messy, awkward, and ongoing. It’s not some glossy destination you hit once and then call it a day. It’s a series of small, deliberate acts of acceptance. Loving yourself means treating your mistakes kindly, celebrating your weirdness, and focusing less on becoming someone new and more on just being you.
So, instead of waiting for some magic moment to “arrive” at self-love, try this: wave the white flag, call a truce with your own narrative, and celebrate the imperfect, funny, and deeply worthy person staring back in the mirror.
