Savannah taught me to love beauty in all its complexity—the grandeur of a crumbling mansion, the lushness of magnolia trees against a stormy sky. But for years, I couldn’t look in the mirror with the same kind of reverence. Loving myself felt like this distant, romantic notion, the backdrop of other people’s stories. My own reflection? More like the fixer-upper on Gordon Street, the one you drive past and mutter, “She’s got potential.” It wasn’t until I started treating myself as something worth restoring—not just repairing—that I finally began to see myself with the care and warmth I'd reserved for others.

Loving Myself: Easier Said Than Done

Self-love sounds so simple, doesn’t it? Instagram tells us it’s all bubble baths, yoga retreats, and affirmations spoken into saffron-hued sunsets. Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for glowing skincare and ambient playlists featuring mystical flutes. But self-love isn’t always pretty. It’s more like shoving everything from an overstuffed closet onto the floor, deciding what fits, and lugging the excess to Goodwill.

For me, the “closet purge” began in my late 20s, following a breakup that felt as dramatic as a Tennessee Williams play. If you’ve ever hysterically cried while clutching a handwritten letter under moss-draped oak trees, congratulations—you’re already familiar with my creative writing process. Letting go of that relationship meant sitting with myself in a way I never had before. And let me tell you, Savannah-born or not, sitting still has never been my strong suit.

The Mirror Test (And Failing With Style)

At that point, my self-esteem was like the peeling plaster I’d seen in a thousand historic homes: fragile, precarious, and begging for attention. I would study myself in the mirror the way my dad inspected old ceiling beams, looking for cracks and weaknesses like they were secrets I had to uncover. “Too soft here, too sharp there.” It was brutal.

But one day, it hit me. How could I expect anyone to celebrate me if I spent all my time inventorying my perceived flaws? So, I did something radical: I quit looking for damage, and started noticing details I actually appreciated. My quirky smirk? Undeniably me. The laugh lines appearing near my eyes? Evidence of all the times my best friend and I cried laughing over bad karaoke. You wouldn’t tear down a house over ivy growing up its columns, right? So, why was I doing that to myself?

Building a Foundation of Self-Acceptance

Here’s the thing: Self-love isn’t about flipping a personality switch and declaring yourself perfect. It’s about recognizing that your worth is inherent, even if parts of you have been “under renovation” for decades. As someone raised in Savannah, where layers of history intertwine seamlessly, I started to approach myself like a project that didn’t need rushing.

Here’s what actually worked:

  • Start small: I stopped criticizing myself for silly things, like missing deadlines or burning toast (again). Progress, not perfection.
  • Celebrate wins: Remember toasts? At first, I celebrated any slice of bread that was edible. Then I applied that principle to bigger things: finishing long-overdue essays, asking for what I needed in relationships—victories, small and large, deserved acknowledgement.
  • Look at the bigger picture: Every flaw, habit, and quirk? It builds who you are. Falling short isn’t failure—it’s proof of being human.

Pouring Myself a Tall Glass of Boundaries

It wasn’t just about how I saw myself; it mattered how others treated me, too. For years, I’d been the person who’d rush in with a casserole dish and emotional validation whenever someone needed me. Meanwhile, I’d let texts go unanswered for days if I felt like my own needs might inconvenience someone.

Here’s a Southern truth: Every good home has a threshold, and not just anyone gets to cross it. Boundaries are an act of self-respect, a declaration that your time, energy, and emotional reserves are sacred. So, I said no—gently, but firmly—when warranted. I learned that “I’ll think about it” wasn’t just a polite Southernism; it was an actual tool for protecting myself from overcommitment. And you know what? The world didn’t end.

Listening to My Own Melody

Growing up, my mother’s piano playing would fill our house with music so rich it seeped through the walls. She’d always say, "The wrong note doesn't ruin the song if your heart’s in it.” When I reflect on my journey to self-love, that’s what stands out most. It wasn’t about perfectionism or checking all the right boxes. It was about giving myself the grace to play my own tune, even if it hit the occasional sour chord.

Somewhere between my breakup recovery, newfound boundaries, and the ability to laugh at myself (pro-tip: if you can laugh at your dating horror stories, you're winning), I found a rhythm of self-acceptance. It’s not always a symphony. Sometimes it’s a one-woman kazoo band on a rainy Wednesday. But it’s mine.

Restoring Your Own Masterpiece

Let’s be clear: Love, whether it’s for yourself or someone else, is not a single grand gesture. It’s the small, persistent actions that carry the most weight—like a gentle hand restoring a decayed piece of molding or framing an old photograph over a fireplace. Self-love takes time, intention, and maintenance.

So here’s my advice: Break the habit of seeing yourself as a project to be finished. Treat yourself as a home that deserves living in—leaky windows, creaky floors, and all. Learn to appreciate what’s already beautiful, while patiently working on the things you want to improve. And, most importantly, don’t forget to occasionally lounge on your figurative porch, iced tea in hand, and marvel at just how far you’ve come.