The Grace of Being Kind to Ourselves

 There’s been a quiet conversation happening in my heart this week.

One about attitude.
About how we carry the weight of our days.
About how easily life can feel heavy without us even noticing when we picked up the load.

Last year at this time, everything felt like too much.
Christmas was busy in all the ways it always is, the lists, the gatherings, the expectations.
My dad was sick.
My mom was stretched thin and stressed.
And somewhere in the middle of trying to hold everyone together, I forgot to hold myself.

I kept going.
Kept showing up.
Kept caring for everyone else.

And I didn’t rest.

It’s something I talk about all the time in pastoral care.
I sit with people and gently remind them to be kind to themselves.
To breathe.
To slow down.
To take the afternoon off.
To stop carrying what was never meant to be carried alone.

I offer compassion so freely.

And then I go home and don’t take my own advice.

I think many of us do this.

We can feel endless empathy for others, their exhaustion, their grief, their overwhelm.
We nod and say, “Of course you’re tired. Look at everything you’ve been through.”
We give permission to rest.
We give grace.

But when it comes to ourselves?

We push harder.
Expect more.
Stay up later.
Keep the plates spinning.
Tell ourselves we should be stronger, better, more together.

Somehow, kindness feels easier to offer outward than inward.

Showing yourself compassion is hard.
Letting yourself off the hook is harder.
And forgiving yourself, for not being perfect, for being tired, for needing rest, might be the hardest of all.

We live in a world that quietly celebrates burnout.
That praises busyness.
That makes rest feel lazy, and boundaries feel selfish.

But that isn’t the way of love.
And it isn’t the way of God.

Rest is not a reward for finishing everything.
Rest is part of being human.

Kindness toward yourself isn’t indulgence.
It’s survival.
It’s healing.
It’s holy.

Self-love isn’t about bubble baths and inspirational quotes (though those can be lovely).
It’s about listening to your body when it whispers before it has to scream.
It’s about noticing when your heart is heavy and choosing gentleness instead of pressure.
It’s about saying, “I’ve done enough for today,” and believing it.

Sometimes the most spiritual thing we can do is stop.

Stop striving.
Stop proving.
Stop carrying what we were never meant to carry.

And rest.

Not because everything is finished.
But because we are tired.
And tired people deserve care.

This season, whatever season you’re in, may you practice the same compassion you give so easily to others.

When you feel overwhelmed, speak to yourself the way you would to someone you love.
When you feel behind, remind yourself how much you’ve already done.
When you make mistakes, offer forgiveness instead of shame.

You are allowed to be human.
You are allowed to need rest.
You are allowed to be gentle with yourself.

Last year taught me something I’m still learning:
That love isn’t only something we pour out.
It’s something we must also receive, even from ourselves.

Especially from ourselves.

So here’s your permission slip (and mine too):
Sit down.
Take a breath.
Drink the tea while it’s still warm.
Go for the walk.
Cancel the thing if you need to.
Sleep.

Let kindness lead.

Because a rested soul is not a weak one.
A gentle heart is not a lazy one.
And loving yourself is not selfish.

It’s how we keep going.
It’s how we heal.
It’s how we learn to live with grace.

May we all learn, slowly, imperfectly, beautifully,
to offer ourselves the same compassion we so freely give to the world.