How I Learned to Love Myself

There’s a particular kind of loneliness that sneaks up on you at dawn. It’s the alpenglow kind, where the peaks start to blush, and you're standing there, coffee steaming in your hand, wondering what the hell is wrong with you. That was me, years ago, out on the ranch, where the nearest neighbor was a couple of miles and a couple of lifetimes away. I’d spent most of that week wrangling stubborn horses and not much else—objectively productive, sure, but I couldn't shake the sense I was falling behind on something. Something bigger. Life, maybe. Or love.

Being alone didn’t bother me—it was the self-loathing that tagged along uninvited. You ever stare at yourself in the mirror and think, “Oh, great, it’s you again”? Yeah, it was that kind of phase. But if life out West has taught me anything, it’s that holding a grudge—against someone else or yourself—only tires your arms out. So, here’s how I learned to let all that grudge-goo go and saddle up to this whole self-love thing instead.

Step One: Quit Wrestling Ghosts

I used to think self-love was some mystical thing, reserved for people who had it all figured out. You know, like those couples in rom-coms who always have great lighting and never say something embarrassing when they’re nervous. Meanwhile, there I was—barely social, perpetually worried my laugh sounded like a wheezing elk—and convinced I wasn’t measuring up.

But here’s the deal. Loving yourself doesn’t mean becoming your own ideal—or the ideal anyone else says you should be. It means calling off the rodeo with your past mistakes or anyone else’s opinion and saying, “You’re not paying rent here anymore.”

The day this clicked for me wasn’t dramatic. There was no symphony of violins, just me, a foggy mirror, and half a leftover pop-tart from breakfast. I looked at myself—truly looked—and thought, “What if I called a truce here? Between me and, you know...also me?” That’s where it started. A truce with the past.

Step Two: Find the Stuff That Makes You Spark

For years, I thought I had to earn the right to enjoy myself. No relaxing until the chores were done, no hobbies that didn’t sound impressive at a dinner party. Let me save you some time: that’s nonsense.

The best relationship advice (even for the one you have with yourself) is to actually do things you like. If you’re not sure what that is, think back to what tugged at your heart as a kid before you started worrying what other people thought. For me, it was sketching wildlife during long summers on the ranch—pronghorn, hawks, bears that got a little too curious about the garbage cans. Turns out, going back to those small joys as an adult felt more like home than I expected.

Finding your spark doesn’t have to be a spiritual pilgrimage. Maybe it’s as simple as blasting Fleetwood Mac in your kitchen while trying a new chili recipe or saying yes to that calligraphy class you secretly always wanted to try. Whatever it is, don’t apologize for what lights you up. Your hobbies don’t need to be PR-approved.

Step Three: Learn to Sit With the Quiet

It’s funny—when you live in a place like Wyoming, you’d think silence would feel like a second skin. But learning to sit with the quiet inside your own head? That’s a whole other challenge.

True story: one winter, I volunteered at a remote conservation site in New Zealand. Gorgeous place—but remote meant no Wi-Fi, no streaming TV, not even a neighbor who might accidentally wave from their porch across the way. Just me, a handful of trees, and the sound of my own thoughts. Honestly? I panicked at first. Thought I’d lose my mind before I’d find peace.

But then something shifted. I started journaling every evening, even if it was just ramblings about the weather or a doodle of a bird I'd seen. I started walking longer trails just to clear my head. Slowly, I adjusted to the idea that being alone wasn’t the weapon I made it out to be. Alone wasn’t judgmental or heavy. It just was.

Practice giving yourself that same calm space—whether it’s five minutes on the porch at sunset or letting yourself daydream instead of answering one more text. Listen to your thoughts, even the bad ones, and remind yourself that no storm—and I mean none—lasts forever.

Step Four: Allow Yourself Life’s Little Luxuries

For years, I believed anything that felt too indulgent was a luxury I hadn’t earned. I declined spontaneous weekends with friends, bought bargain-bin versions of things I actually cared about, and even skipped the occasional Saturday ice cream because what if it wasn’t “necessary”?

Now? Let me tell you something—small joys are essential. It’s not about carelessness; it’s about caring enough to be happy. I started saying yes to every little thing that made me smile, from splurging on a sketch notebook with buttery smooth pages to planning solo hikes just to watch the elk during golden hour.

Self-love isn’t something reserved for glossy influencers sipping $8 lattes. It’s something you practice when you buy the brand of coffee you actually like or take yourself thrifting just because. Life is short, y’all. Eat the ice cream.

Step Five: Accept the Work—in Progress

Here’s the truth, wrapped up like a gift in last year’s holiday paper: I haven’t come close to perfecting self-love. That lingering voice that whispers “Not good enough” still shows up now and then, like an untrained puppy chewing on the furniture. But learning to love yourself isn’t about shutting that voice up forever. It’s about learning how to treat it like the irritating background noise it is instead of letting it run the show.

Some days these lessons settle on you like a well-worn flannel. Other days, they fit like the pair of boots you didn’t quite break in properly. Both are fine. No one said the trail to self-love would be smooth—but it’s one path worth taking.

Closing Thoughts: You’re Already Enough

When I was a kid, my dad would always say, “The land doesn’t ask you to be anyone but you.” I didn’t get it then—not really. I was too busy trying to be the “right kind” of cowboy-poet, the perfect student, the guy with an always-stable picture of his future ahead. What he meant, I think, was that everything worth loving—the rivers, the trees, and yes, you—are already complete just as they are. Sure, there’s growth. Sure, there’s refinement. But the core of who you are doesn’t need fixing.

If you take away one thing from this piece, let it be this: You don’t have to wait for the world to give you permission to love yourself. Start now. Start scrappy. Start with leftovers in your freezer and a secondhand raincoat that doesn’t quite fit, but keeps you dry all the same.

The relationship we invest in with ourselves is the foundation for everything else. And like any great adventure, it’s worth the time and effort to make it a good one.