‘Word by Word’ is a column by Garima Behal on learning to ride the highs and lows of everyday life

A week before writing this essay, I was on my period and super excited about going to a mental health picnic. Between commuting by the metro, walking the last mile, and running around during the event, I had walked some 10 kilometers. 

It wasn’t the best idea. I ended up cramping. 

“It was an incredibly stupid thing to do, walking so much that day,” I chided myself mentally. Then I berated my judgment again while talking to my mom about it. I also cribbed to my friend on the phone about how I just couldn’t seem to do anything right. I might have called myself dumb, too. 

Most people I know do this. More often than we realize. 

When the winged eyeliner isn’t perfectly winged. When the jeans we ordered are one size too small. When we accidentally book train tickets for the wrong date. When we make mistakes that will in no way change the course of even our own history, let alone that of another, we let our inner critics have a field day.

Perhaps because that’s what we learn while growing up. Our elders usually have one mission. To shape us into smart, self-sufficient human beings. Alas, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. And sometimes, their excessive interruptions, largely well-meaning but debilitating course corrections, distort the voice in our heads—till it becomes one we fail to recognize as our own yet somehow accept without question. Our unabashed, unrelenting inner critic.

I don’t know about yours, but mine shuts up only about two times, if ever. First is when I am chasing perfectionism. The second is when I take the high(er) road to meet its alter ego and its antidote, self-compassion.

Perfectionism is a quick fix whose high fades faster than a smoke ring. If only I could be perfect, all of my problems would disappear, I deceive myself. If only I could be the perfect coworker, friend, mentor, and daughter—there would be nothing left to criticize, right?

I’m not kidding when I say I strived to live this made-up story almost all my life. But running after perfection was like being in a time loop. Each time, I was back where I had started, only a little dizzier and worse for the wear.

But self-compassion? Now that promised me something markedly different from climbing a never-ending, forever-ascending mountain.

“May I be happy. May I be well. May I be loved. May I live with ease.” 

The first time I repeated these words to myself on the instruction of a self-compassion meditation teacher on YouTube, they felt exactly how she had warned they would. Fake. Contrived. With neither intent nor impact.

Yet, every article I read, every podcast I heard, and every video I watched on the topic convinced me that if there was a way to silence the annoying little devil living rent-free inside my head, this was it. So, I carried on. For over 2 years, I sat on my yellow yoga mat, facing my hand-crafted sandalwood Buddha, urging him to open his meditatively seductive eyes just once, placing both hands over my heart till the sound of my heartbeat and the warmth of my palm fused together. I chanted this supposedly magical mantra that would carry me over to the light. 

I was instructed to practice 3 components. 

The first was mindfulness: acknowledging the hardship and the pain while we are facing it. The inner critic loves to feast on it, after all, and kick us when we are already down. “This is a moment of suffering,” said Chris Germer over and over on YouTube till acceptance started seeping into my bones together with his voice. 

The second was common humanity: understanding that EVERYONE suffers. The innocent street orphan, the nasty colleague, the loving parent, the mischievous sibling, and the hot stranger on the flight. My pain became tolerable once I knew I wasn’t isolated in our misery. 

The third and final component was choosing self-kindness over self-judgment. Since our inner cheerleader isn’t as energetic as our inner critic, this component involves imagining a friend going through the same painful situation we are in and sending them kindness. Gradually, you replace the mental image of your friend with your own and continue whispering the same soothing phrases: “I am here for you.” “You’re doing the best you can.” “I am proud of you.”

The transformation was so slow, so subtle, that I barely noticed it. Till it was suddenly everywhere, like a prodigal kid who had finally found their way home. One of my favorite slam poets, Phil Kaye, says “My mother taught me this trick. If you repeat something over and over again it loses its meaning.”

Imagine its opposite. That’s exactly the effect self-compassion had on me. By repeating that I was here for myself and proud of myself, I had essentially rewired my brain into believing that I had permission to be flawed. That I could love myself even when no one else could. Be kind to myself when everybody else hated me. And that my inner critic should take a well-deserved break—after 25 years of nearly non-stop talking.

Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author’s own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of MyndStories.