This post discusses mental health, trauma, self-criticism, self-worth and self-compassion.

I have admired Wentworth Miller since I was twelve years old.

That is quite a long time to have somebody you have never met occupy a small, but strangely significant, place in your life.

For me, it has never really been about being a fan in the traditional sense. I have always admired his thoughtfulness, his eloquence, and, perhaps most importantly, his honesty. Especially when it comes to his mental health and sexuality.

There has always been something oddly comforting about hearing someone speak so openly about things that are often deeply personal, difficult or uncomfortable. There is something reassuring about hearing someone articulate experiences you might struggle to put into words yourself.

When I was sixteen, I watched Miller’s conversation at the Oxford Union. I was going through quite a lot at the time, and I was also so fucking hard on myself. I have always been hard on myself, but there was something particularly relentless about it then. I could offer understanding, patience and compassion to other people, but I seemed to have absolutely nothing left for myself.

Then Miller said something that stuck with me:

“If I spoke to my friends like I [used to] speak to myself, I would have no friends.”

You can watch the full conversation here:

(This particular sentence comes from the section that starts at around 22:55)

I don’t remember exactly what I thought when I first heard it, but I remember thinking how true that was. 

Here we are ten years on, and I still think about it.  

For the most part, I have always been quite good at supporting people. When someone comes to me struggling, I usually know what to do. I know how to listen, I know how to reassure without dismissing what they are feeling, I know when someone needs advice and when they simply just need someone to listen or sit with them through it. I know how to help someone untangle their thoughts, I know how to remind someone that a mistake they made doesn’t define their character and I know how to tell someone they are worthy of compassion even if they don’t particularly feel like it.

I know what to say.

I know how to conduct myself.

I know how to be there.

But when it comes to me? It feels impossible.

I can show compassion to somebody else with ease and then turn around and treat myself as though I am the exception to every rule I would ever give another human.

You made a mistake? It’s okay, you’re human.

I made a mistake? I am fucking useless.

I feel like we often talk about compassion like it is straightforward or something; be kind to yourself, talk to yourself as you would a friend, practice self-compassion.

It sounds lovely.

It also sounds incredibly fucking difficult when, somewhere down the line, you learned that compassion is something other people deserve more than you do.

I know this because I have actually tried.

During trauma therapy, we did some work around self-compassion and I fucking hated it. Not mildly disliked it – hated it!

The exercises could make me angry, embarrassed, uncomfortable and resistant. The idea of offering myself the same understanding I would readily offer someone else felt utterly bizarre to me. 

Why should I be compassionate towards myself?

What have I actually done to deserve it?

What if I really am as bad as I think I am?

I think part of me genuinely believes I am fundamentally unworthy of compassion, truth be told, and that is a horrible thing to realise about yourself. But I also think it is important because you can’t really challenge something you refuse to acknowledge exists.

Something I have slowly started to understand is that being compassionate towards yourself doesn’t mean pretending you’ve never done anything wrong.

It doesn’t mean avoiding responsibility.

It doesn’t mean turning every mistake into a lesson about how wonderful you secretly are.

Sometimes we fuck up big time.

Sometimes we hurt people.

Sometimes we make choices we regret.

Sometimes we need to apologise, change our behaviour and do better.

Self-compassion doesn’t erase any of that.

What it does is challenge the idea that we have to despise ourselves to become better people.

There is a difference between I did something wrong and I am wrong.

There is a difference between I need to change this and there is something fundamentally wrong with me.

There is a difference between accountability and punishment, and I spent a lot of my life confusing the two.

This is why that sentence from Miller has stayed with me so long because it gives me a question I can’t easily wriggle out of: would I speak to a friend the way I speak to myself?

If someone I cared about came to me feeling like a failure, I wouldn’t start listing every possible reason they should have to hate themselves.

If they made a mistake, I wouldn’t tell them that mistake now defines them.

If they were struggling, I wouldn’t call them weak or tell them how undeserving they are of help.

I would probably tell them that they are human.

I would probably tell them they deserve some understanding.

I would probably tell them that they can take responsibility for whatever had happened without tearing themselves a part.

The idea of self-love has always felt like too big a leap for me.

Love yourself.

What if I can’t? What if I don’t even particularly like myself? What if I am still carrying things that make that feel impossible?

The idea of self-compassion makes more sense to me when I separate it from self-love.

Maybe I don’t have to love myself.

Maybe I don’t have to convince myself I am amazing.

Maybe I don’t even have to like myself.

But I don’t have to be cruel to myself.

I can acknowledge that I have made many mistakes without calling myself a fuck up.

I can recognise I need to work on parts of myself without deciding that I’m fundamentally broken.

I can regret something hugely without believing I am irredeemable.

I can hold myself accountable without making myself suffer for the privilege.

I can learn, maybe – in time – to offer myself the same kindness I so freely give to others.

I don’t think I am particularly good at this yet. In fact, I know I am still bad at it, but maybe that is the point.

We talk about becoming as though it is supposed to be a linear, smooth process. As though one day we will simply arrive at the version of ourselves who has everything figured out. But maybe becoming is also learning how to relate to ourselves differently.

Learning that we don’t have to earn compassion.

Learning that making mistakes doesn’t make us unworthy.

Learning that struggling doesn’t make us weak.

Learning to take accountability without abusing ourselves.

And learning, slowly and sometimes painfully, that the person we are most responsible for living with is ourselves.

I don’t know whether I will ever become someone who instinctively speaks to himself with the same kindness he offers other people, but I would like to try. Because that sixteen-year-old version of me who had heard Wentworth Miller say those words was already very good at being there for other people, he just didn’t know he was allowed to be there for himself, too.

Maybe I don’t need to become my own best friend, like Miller said.

Maybe I just need to stop being my own worst enemy.

Maybe that is enough.