my inner child is annoying me

finding self-compassion for the most shameful parts

This picture of me at three years old has been staring at me from this spot on my desk for about six weeks now. Within the frame of this rounded-edge, matte photo (clearly printed in the 70s!) this little girl sits beside a curiously large, stuffed St. Bernard. She’s still in the white undershirt she slept in (I always slept in those as a kid), looking less-than-amused with the outcome of having worn those uncomfortable pink sponge rollers under a scarf all night long to make her hair this freaking curly.

Sometimes, when I’m needing a boost in self-compassion and positive self-talk, I place a childhood photo of myself in a spot where I’ll be sure to see it often, like here on my desk, on my bathroom mirror, on my iPhone home screen, or stuck to the dashboard of my car. It’s a reminder to treat myself the way that child needed to be treated, to only talk to myself in the voice in which I’d talk to that child one of me.