Self-love feels like a stranger who knows my first name– swears we’ve met before. I stumble through an apology and explain that my heart isn’t what it used to be, we are so familiar with people coming and going these days.
We go about this the best we can. She pats the seat beside her and braids my hair the way I’d imagine my mother would, twists each strand like she’s looming a tapestry out of my split ends. ‘This doesn’t have to be so hard,’ she explains, 'be gentle with yourself. Even if you think you are undeserving, give the war a rest.’
Words by Schuyler Peck