Loving Myself is the Medicine
A Prayer for Healing and Transformation
I no longer wait for permission to be whole.
I return to myself—breath by breath, truth by truth—and I find sanctuary in my own presence. This isn’t self-help. This is sacred reclamation. This is me choosing to be my own answer, my own soft place to land, my own fierce and faithful witness.
Loving myself is the medicine.
It’s not something I chase. It’s something I choose. I choose it in moments that feel heavy with grief, in the silence between sobs, in the tension that lives in my shoulders. I choose it when I look in the mirror and barely recognize the reflection. I choose it when I show up raw and honest and still open-hearted.
Because I remember now—love doesn’t always come dressed in ease. Sometimes it shows up in boundaries. In stillness. In releasing the patterns that once protected me but no longer serve who I am becoming.
When I speak kindly to myself, I create new language for my cells to live by.
When I hold myself through sorrow, I rewrite the story of abandonment.
When I nourish my body, I send a signal to my soul that I am worth caring for.
When I trust myself, I silence the voices that said I never could.
This love isn’t shallow. It’s fierce. It’s holy. It’s the kind of love that requires truth-telling, even when it shakes me. The kind that calls me back from the edge. The kind that won’t let me stay small, silent, or suppressed.
To love myself is to dismantle the lies I inherited. It is to unlearn shame. To challenge the narratives that taught me I was too much or not enough. It is to look at my reflection and say, I see you. I choose you. I will not abandon you.
This is not performance. This is presence.
I am not pretending I don’t hurt—I am honoring that I do and loving myself anyway. I do not wait for a partner, a parent, a system, or a savior to love me right. I do it now. I do it trembling. I do it in the middle of my becoming. Because loving myself is not a reward—it’s a right.
Some days, self-love looks like radiant confidence. Other days, it looks like turning off the world and curling up in quiet. Both are valid. Both are sacred.
This is how I mother myself. This is how I father myself. This is how I reclaim myself.
This is my prayer—
May I forgive myself for forgetting my light.
May I bless the younger me who thought she had to earn love.
May I make peace with the past while anchoring in the now.
May I no longer call survival strength when what I need is rest.
May I open to the beauty of being seen—first by me.
May I listen to the language of my body and respond with compassion.
May I become the mother, the lover, the protector, the healer I have longed for.
May I stop shrinking to soothe others’ discomfort with my power.
May I embrace the slow unfolding of transformation without judgment.
May I remember— Loving myself is not selfish. It is revolutionary.
Because the moment I root in self-love, I become a living prayer.
A walking, breathing, radiant act of transformation.
This is how I move from rupture to repair.
This is how I come home to myself again and again.
I am no longer waiting.
I am the medicine.
Thank you, Spirit. Àṣẹ.
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