How loving-kindness helped me believe in myself again

There was a time in my life when I could talk about self-love with the fluency of an academic—citing studies on self-compassion, referencing Carl Rogers’ theories of unconditional positive regard, even quoting Buddhist suttas on Metta. But I couldn’t feel any of it. I had the language, the logic, and the credentials. What I didn’t have was a relationship with myself that felt remotely kind.

And here’s the curious paradox: I wasn’t depressed. I was functioning. Highly, in fact. From the outside, I was achieving, writing, meditating daily. But the voice inside? Relentless. Critical. Exhausting. If you’ve ever felt like you’re performing your life instead of living it, you’ll know what I mean.

The question that eventually cracked me open wasn’t “How do I love myself?” It was far more subversive:

 “What if the way I’m trying to fix myself is actually how I’m breaking myself?”

This article is a quiet rebellion. Not against effort or growth—but against the assumption that harshness leads to transformation. 

Through my journey, I came to understand loving-kindness—not as a fluffy spiritual add-on—but as a radical psychological reset. One that helped me believe in myself not as an achievement, but as a birthright.

Why trying harder doesn’t heal the hurt

We’re a culture obsessed with self-improvement. We optimize, biohack, therapize. We push through. We set goals and chase them, assuming that belief in ourselves will come as a byproduct of accomplishment. But here’s what I’ve observed in both my own experience and in the stories of others I’ve worked with:

When self-worth is conditional, it is never secure.

Psychologist Kristin Neff, whose work on self-compassion I return to often, contrasts self-esteem with self-compassion. Self-esteem, she argues, is often contingent on success—on being better than others, on avoiding failure. Self-compassion, by contrast, allows us to feel worthy even in our lowest moments. That distinction was a lifeline for me.

I realized I had confused striving with self-love. I believed that if I could just become more disciplined, more productive, more impressive—I would finally like myself. But I didn’t need more effort. I needed a new orientation. I needed Metta.

The moment Metta stopped being a concept and became a lifeline

For years, I had recited the traditional Metta phrases in my morning meditation:

“May I be happy. May I be healthy. May I be safe. May I live with ease.”

But it was mechanical, like reading a user manual for a device I’d never touched.

That changed one rainy morning when, after a night of intense self-doubt, I sat down on my cushion and—on a whim—spoke to myself not with the formula but with a question:

“What if I treated myself the way I would a friend who’s suffering?”

I imagined what I’d say to someone I loved who felt worthless. I saw their pain and offered warmth. Then I realized: I was that person. I was just refusing myself the basic dignity I would extend to almost anyone else.

That morning, I didn’t meditate in silence. I wept.

Something shifted. Not everything, not instantly. But something real. It was the first time in years I let myself be fully human—in all my messiness—and didn’t meet it with an internal wince.

And that’s the moment Metta stopped being a Buddhist principle I respected and became a practice I needed.

The self isn’t a problem to solve—It’s a relationship to tend

One of the most powerful shifts Metta offers is this:

You are not an object to improve. You are a being to relate to.

In Western psychology, we often talk about the self in fixed terms: the inner critic, the ego, the self-concept. We speak as though our identity is a static structure. 

Buddhism sees it differently. It sees the self as a process—a stream of experiences, thoughts, sensations, all arising and fading moment to moment.

And here’s where Metta comes in: if the self is constantly shifting, we can choose to meet it again and again with kindness. Not to reinforce the ego, but to recognize the common humanity of our experience.

Ask yourself:

• What if I stopped trying to fix myself and started trying to befriend myself? 
• What if I’m not broken, just tired from carrying so many expectations? 
• Who would I be if I extended the same forgiveness to myself that I give so freely to others? 

Each of these questions became a doorway—not to answers, but to a different way of relating to my inner world.

The gentle power of tiny rituals

Contrary to what self-help culture often suggests, believing in yourself doesn’t require grand affirmations or huge achievements. It requires consistency in compassion.

Here are a few practices that helped me—and continue to ground me:

1. The “Mirror Metta” practice
   Each morning, I stand in front of the mirror and offer myself one Metta phrase—slowly, sincerely. Not a pep talk. Not a mantra to “boost confidence.” Just a quiet offering. “May you be kind to yourself today.” Some days, it feels hollow. Others, it cracks something open. Either way, I return. 
2. The self-compassion check-in
   When I catch myself spiraling into self-judgment, I pause and ask: “Would I say this to someone I love?” If not, I try to rephrase it in the gentlest version I can. This doesn’t mean letting myself off the hook—it means holding myself accountable without cruelty. 
3. The Metta walk
   On particularly hard days, I take a short walk and silently repeat: “Just like me, others struggle too.” This connects me back to shared humanity—the heart of Buddhist compassion—and eases the illusion that I’m alone in my suffering. 

These are not dramatic. They won’t go viral on social media. But they’re real. And they work.

Why belief in yourself begins with how you suffer

Here’s something I’ve come to believe deeply:

You don’t truly believe in yourself until you see how you treat yourself when you’re failing, not succeeding.

Most of us can feel good about ourselves when we’re achieving. But it’s in our lowest moments—when the project fails, the relationship ends, the motivation vanishes—that our true self-relationship is revealed.

Loving-kindness doesn’t mean we don’t strive. It doesn’t mean complacency. What it means is that we no longer use self-hatred as fuel.

The psychologist Carl Jung once said, “The most terrifying thing is to accept oneself completely.” I think that’s why so few people truly practice Metta. It asks us to stop performing and start witnessing ourselves—with all our scars, contradictions, and clumsy beauty.

What if you’re already worthy?

If you’ve read this far, it means something in you already suspects what I eventually realized:

Self-love is not a destination—it’s a direction. A way of walking.

Let me leave you with a question that continues to shape my own journey:

“What if nothing about you needs to change in order for you to be worthy of kindness right now?”

Not tomorrow. Not once you’ve figured it out. Not once you’ve become more “spiritual” or successful or healed. Right now. As you are.

You may not believe it yet. That’s okay. Belief, I’ve found, often follows behavior. Begin with the smallest act of kindness toward yourself. Then another. And another.

In time, those acts become a language. One you’ll relearn. One that sounds, eventually, like home.