Sometimes, life hands you a mirror when you’d much rather be handed, say, a glass of Napa Cabernet. For me, that mirror came during a time when I realized my relationships were starting to look like a poorly paired wine flight: all over the place and leaving me unsatisfied. Each one was unique, sure, but none of them complemented me or helped me grow. And, as hard as it was to admit, the common denominator in all those mismatched dynamics was… well, me. Ouch. But rather than drowning in a metaphorical over-oaked Chardonnay, I decided to do the scariest thing of all: look inward, learn to love myself, and change the way I moved through the world.

What followed wasn’t exactly the stuff of Eat, Pray, Love (though I did eat plenty, occasionally prayed for strength, and loved myself much more by the end). Instead, it was a messy, enlightening, and often hilarious journey of figuring out how to be my own number one. If you’re in a place where “self-love” sounds at once unachievable and a little too Gwyneth Paltrow-ish, stick with me. Here’s how I went from cringing at my own reflection to genuinely enjoying my own company.

Start with the Sour Grapes: Recognizing the Problem

Ever noticed how every bottle of disappointing wine you’ve ever tasted stays seared into your memory? Too sweet, too tannic, corked beyond repair. That’s how I felt about certain moments in my life—I kept fixating on what went wrong: the failed relationships, the times I was ghosted, the self-sabotaging behaviors I hated admitting to. I was the queen of hindsight, filing away mental notes on what I could’ve done better while carelessly skipping the part where I actually did better next time.

The wake-up call? I was caring more about how others perceived me than how I perceived myself. If someone didn’t like me, I bent myself into a pretzel (a crispy, salty one with too many cracks) to fit their expectations. It was exhausting. One day, after an especially ridiculous exchange where I started a hobby just to impress someone I didn’t even like (woodworking—don’t ask), I stopped and thought, "Who am I trying to win over? And why don’t I try that hard for myself?"

The Vintage That’s Been On the Shelf Too Long: Reclaiming Joyful Rituals

Growing up in Napa, I learned something essential about wine: it breathes. You let it sit, swirl it in its glass, give it space to open up. Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to give myself that same grace. My time became cluttered with things for others—doing favors, chasing validation, and always playing the role of “the cool, low-maintenance girl” (spoiler: I am neither low-maintenance nor cool). I wasn’t showing up for myself. So, I started small.

  • Reclaim the Solo Dinner: Dining out alone used to terrify me. “What if people think I’m weird or lonely?” was a recurring thought I couldn’t shake. But I booked an early Tuesday night reservation at a cozy Italian restaurant—complete with mood lighting and twinkly string lights—and sat there twirling my fork around luscious carbonara like some rom-com heroine. I left euphoric. Dining solo became my weekly ritual, swapping judgment for joy.

  • Curate Your Own Playlist: Instead of defaulting to someone else's music preferences (we've all “become” a Death Metal Girl for a guy, right? No? Just me?), I went back to French chanson, the jazzy tunes I loved when studying abroad in Paris. Listening felt like a homecoming to parts of myself I'd tucked away for years.

The Blend Over the Single Varietal: Gathering Support

Here’s the thing: learning to love yourself doesn’t mean shutting out other people. It’s about being intentional with who gets a seat at your table. I grew skilled at identifying Emotional Energy Vampires™—you know, the ones who show up after a bad breakup, guzzle all your emotional bandwidth, and leave without even doing the dishes. Once I stopped offering free refills of myself to everyone, I had room for the kind of people who poured back into my cup (without being asked).

  • I put boundaries in place. Saying “no” became an act of self-care rather than guilt.
  • I leaned on a therapist for untangling what “self-love” even looked like to me.
  • I nurtured friendships that felt like a sunny vineyard picnic: supportive, light, and filled with great laughter.

Becoming My Own Pairing Expert: Self-Love Habits

There’s no perfect wine, and guess what? There’s no perfect “you” either. What you can create, though, is a version of yourself that tastes richer, feels fuller, and surprises you with its quality. My daily (okay, maybe weekly—progress, not perfection) practices include:

  1. Daily Bathrooms Pep Talks: Yes, I sometimes look in the mirror and say things like, “You are worthy, Briar, and also your curls are kind of fantastic today.” Compliments feel less cringey over time. Try it.
  2. Indulge in “Extra” Pleasures: Always wanted fancy bath salts but thought they were too… much? Buy them. Always wanted to bake a three-layer lavender honey cake? DO IT. Bonus: I made one and ate it with wine at 2 p.m. on a random Tuesday because why not?
  3. Celebrate Little Wins: I learned to cheer myself on for completing even the smallest self-care tasks. Send an email I’d been procrastinating? Cue up my victory playlist.

Savoring the Aftertaste: What Love Means Now

For years, I expected love to come from others and to fix things that felt “broken” in me. Now, I’ve started treating myself with the kind of care I used to reserve for dinner parties or a truly rare wine tasting experience. I've learned to stop apologizing for who I am (a little bold, a little refined, and yes, occasionally too much).

When I think about love now, it’s not limited to a dating context. It’s the kind of love I feel when I’m sitting on a patio, a glass of Bordeaux in hand, bathed in golden-hour light and struck with gratitude for simply being alive. It’s the quiet pride of making friends with your own quiet thoughts, cheering for your own growth, and showing up for yourself in a way that feels nothing short of revolutionary.

Learning to love myself wasn’t a one-and-done act. I didn’t reach some magical finish line and go, “Okay, cool, I’m cured!” It’s work, like tending a vineyard or perfecting a wine blend—it takes time, attention, and a whole measure of patience.

Here’s my advice: stop waiting for someone else to fill your glass. Pour your own, savor every note, and toast to the gorgeously unique person you already are, flaws and all. Cheers to that.