I used to think self-love was something reserved for protagonists in romantic comedies—cue a montage of Julia Roberts smiling in the mirror, lip-syncing to an empowering ballad. But in real life, learning to love yourself isn’t exactly set to a soundtrack, and no one hands you a bowl of popcorn while you get there. For me, it took years of doubt, false starts, and one alarmingly bad haircut called “The Experimental Bob” (don’t ask) to finally understand what self-love really means. Spoiler alert: it’s not just bubble baths, affirmations, and splurging on fancy candles.

Let me share the tale of how I got here—and how you might, too.

Step 1: The Mirror Moment (or Lack Thereof)

Growing up in Beijing, my home was a place where ideas and history thrived. My parents were scholars—they could name obscure dynasties and recite Tang poems faster than I could finish a math worksheet. While this meant I grew up loving stories, it also meant I felt there were some ridiculously high expectations—like I was supposed to have a life straight out of an epic Chinese saga. Every wrong step felt measured against Confucian ideals of discipline and filial piety. No pressure, right?

And then there was the matter of looks. I remember as a teenager studying my reflection, caught somewhere between too much skepticism and too little self-kindness. My friends in school wore lip gloss and perfect blouses, while I struggled in this oversized hoodie phase like I was auditioning for a moody indie film that no one asked me to star in. That self-critical voice inside my head? It was relentless: “Too awkward, too quiet, not enough like the effortless girls in magazines or—let’s admit it—K-drama heroines with their glass-like skin.”

Here’s the thing: I waited a long time for my dramatic Mirror Moment, where I would suddenly just “see” my worth. It never came. What did come? A slow, subtle understanding that my worth had nothing to do with that mirror—and everything to do with what I gave myself permission to believe about who I was.

Step 2: The Art of “Talking Back”

Self-love, for me, started with conversations—not with others, but with that nagging critical voice in my head. You know the one. It pipes up as soon as your date cancels and whispers, “You’re probably too boring.” It’s the annoying roommate in your brain you didn’t even invite.

For years, I let that voice control the narrative about who I was. But one afternoon, halfway through translating a 7th-century Chinese poem, I had an epiphany: Li Bai never wasted his time doubting his stardust when he stood under the heavens drinking wine. Sure, he had exile and heartbreak to contend with, but the man knew his worth.

So I started talking back to the voice.

Voice: “Everyone else seems to have it more together than you.” Me: “Well, that’s funny because last week I set my kitchen on fire boiling dumplings, and nobody batted an eye.”

Voice: “You’ll never be as interesting as [insert random acquaintance on social media here].” Me: “I’d like to see them conquer ten chapters of Romance of the Three Kingdoms in one sitting!”

It wasn’t always easy, but each internal dialogue was like knocking bricks off a wall I’d built around myself. I told myself stories of why I wasn’t good enough—and if I could rewrite those stories, I could rewrite everything.

Step 3: Dating Myself (And Not Just on Saturday Nights)

When I tell people I started “dating myself,” they look at me like I suddenly transformed into a cliché Instagram post. But hear me out. For decades, I treated my time and energy like it was a clearance sale: anyone could grab it. Friends, colleagues, relationships that didn’t even spark the tiniest sliver of joy—for so long, I judged my value on what I could give to others, not what I could give to… me.

So, I did something terrifying: I set boundaries and prioritized myself. At first, it felt like dressing in clothes that weren’t mine—my natural instinct was still, “Be nice, be accommodating, say yes even when you want to say no.” But then I started realizing something profound: this wasn’t selfishness. It was survival.

  • I blocked out solo afternoons for writing, not because anyone would read it, but because I loved it.
  • I tried new hobbies for no reason other than joy—calligraphy classes, bad attempts at baking, and one salsa class that was 90% me tripping over my sneakers.
  • I took myself to dinner, brought a novel along, and sat there like the main character in my own story.

The result? The more time I spent loving my own company, the less I felt like I needed to earn love from anyone else. It’s remarkable how powerful it feels to refuse to shrink yourself for the comfort of others.

Step 4: Permission to Be Messy

Look, I grew up surrounded by stories—historical sagas, sweeping love poems, tales where everything wove together beautifully. But real life? It’s rarely that orderly. There’s no narrator who swoops in to wrap up your loose ends or provide a poignant summary of the lessons you’ve learned.

To love myself, I had to embrace this messiness. I had to accept that I could be a contradiction: quiet but fierce, bookish but bold, deeply traditional yet completely modern. I no longer saw the awkward phases or the tearful nights or the failed ventures as missteps. They were part of me—a patchwork quilt made up of all the ways I said “yes” to life, even when I didn’t have it figured out.

And, yes, this also involved forgiving myself for bad decisions. Like that Experimental Bob haircut—it didn’t matter if my hairdresser called it “progressive.” What mattered was that I learned to laugh about it. (With pictures mercifully deleted.)

Step 5: Writing the Love Letter You Don’t Send

One final thought: something I found surprisingly healing was writing myself a letter. The kind of letter I’d write to a lifelong friend—a little awkward, a little sentimental, but entirely sincere. In it, I listed the reasons why I was grateful for the person I had become. For my laughter. For my resilience. For the way I could dissolve into euphoria over a well-cooked bowl of hand-pulled noodles.

I never sent it anywhere (because where exactly would you mail that?). But it opened up a part of my heart I hadn’t revisited in a long time. A part that said, “You’re worthy of love—first and foremost, from yourself.”

The Takeaway: You’re the Hero of Your Own Romance

We talk about love all the time—often about giving it to others. But loving yourself? That’s the foundation for every connection you’ll ever have. It’s messy and nonlinear, like a jigsaw puzzle where half the pieces keep hiding under the couch. But it’s worth it.

Take time. Be patient. Argue with the critical voices. Make yourself laugh. Write yourself a letter. And most importantly, don’t wait for a rom-com montage to remind you that you’re lovable. You already are. Even in that awkward hoodie phase.

Self-love isn’t a destination. It’s a journey, and every day you choose it, you’re already winning.