My heart sank when I read a post on a Facebook group celebrating another writer’s contract, a dream project very similar to the one I want to pursue and one of the biggest breakthroughs I’ve ever seen. I immediately criticized myself, embarrassed that my own proposal was in a half-completed Google document. I tried to silence intrusive thoughts about my worthlessness by scrolling down the page, but my feed was full of lists my peers had compiled to showcase their best and favorite work of 2022. My inner critic resurfaced, competing to compare and judge. . : My fees are too low, my signatures are not that impressive, my success is not consistent, I will never achieve the rest of my goals and I need to fix this.
«To shut up!» a voice inside me bellowed aloud, racking my brain to a stop. It was like a teenager’s outburst of indignation. And she was defending me.
We tend to see the younger versions of ourselves as immature and incomplete and someone to let go of as we evolve. But those children inside us hold on to parts of ourselves that we may need to become the people we still hope to become.
As each new year rolls around, I reflect on the previous year and punish myself for what didn’t work. Although my resolutions seem healthy on the surface, they are, more honestly, the product of that anxiety.
I’m not the only one who sets goals this way. Many of us look forward to the changes we want to make by 2023 and set intentions rooted in our regrets, fears, and shame. In those moments, perhaps we all need someone to defend us from ourselves. That someone could be a younger version of you, begging for the chance to share his vision.
I know it may sound ridiculous. When my therapist asks me to comfort my inner child, I usually want to roll my eyes. «What do you think she needs to know from you?» they ask me. These thought experiments have always seemed silly to me as I struggle to visualize myself as a tween and externalize the dialogue. I never thought I would feel connected to that time again, until that voice appeared without warning during a moment of a downward spiral.
Now I ask myself: «What do I need to know about her?» She feels like she wants to let out a piercing scream, slam the door and curse me. If I weren’t listening intently, I’d mistake that high schooler’s loud, hormonal fury for the berating rants of my inner critic, but her fiery attitude and her frustration don’t seem to stem from angst and disgust. It is a raw and honest act of self-love.
My family has a tradition every December: a month-long nightly ritual with journaling prompts, therapeutic activities, and uplifting gifts. It is a time to be kind to ourselves and others as we contemplate what we love about our lives and what should change in the coming year.
But during a recent exercise meant to help us think about how we’ve nurtured our passions and values this year, I easily listed dozens of perceived failures, personal shortcomings, and missed opportunities without identifying any of my strengths and progress. As my wife and children shared some of their proudest moments, I was struck by my inability to remember my success. I had totally forgotten about it, reducing any growth or achievement to a shrug and convincing myself that this year’s victories weren’t worth celebrating.
This is not a new habit. Every time I set a goal, I raise the bar as soon as there is a win, creating a pattern that ignores my joy or peace and replaces it with instant pressure to better myself. I feel like I’m in a never-ending race against an unbeatable opponent, and the efforts to catch up have left me in a dark depression every time I can’t gain ground.
I think it’s because parts of my life have been put on hold while others have fast-forwarded. I was a teenage parent and spent the better part of my 20s trying to find the money to continue through college while enduring hardships and trauma that younger versions of myself could never imagine or understand. Many of my life goals felt out of reach or irrelevant as I tried to survive. Now that I’ve finally started achieving some of them, it’s hard to recognize and enjoy those accomplishments. Instead of excitement, I’m often relieved that the urge to do something meaningful is temporarily muted.
I’ve felt more hopeless in the isolation of my stress over the past few months than as a lonely tween, and I worry that a younger version of myself will be disappointed in what my life has been and who I’ve become. .
Lately I have been feeling overwhelmed by my body, my deadlines, my home, and my relationships. This feels a lot like seventh grade all over again, but with added concerns, like a newly diagnosed disability, elusive work-life balance, and kids to manage within a marriage that ebbs rather than flows these days. Even mundane stressors are amplified with adulthood. I’ve felt more hopeless in the isolation of my stress over the past few months than as a lonely tween, and I worry that a younger version of myself will be disappointed in what my life has been and who I’ve become. .
But you probably feel a little abandoned.
Maybe it’s because being 12 was a time when I really felt self-assured and didn’t push myself to keep up with others. While some girls retreated inward or nervously accepted the status quo, I was a loudmouthed vegetarian arguing with my uncles about the war in Iraq. When matching tracksuits and slicked-back hair ruled the school hallways, I’d wear oversized hoodies, and when my peers were experimenting with makeup, I’d vow not to clog my pores with it. My confidence, convictions, and rebelliousness isolated me in some way, protecting me from the dangers of conforming to social norms. At the time, I thought that I would never change.
But we all eventually leave parts of ourselves behind over the years as we morph into something new to fit in or survive. Continuing to do that has made me more self-aware than when I was younger. Today, I can identify my values when it comes to human rights and justice issues, but it is more difficult to recognize and live by those same values that relate to me. That 12-year-old girl has a better indicator of my self-esteem.
In therapy, I am told to seek inner wisdom to find authenticity. Right now, that tween is my wisest teacher, whose first lesson was a simple demand that I try to respect myself again. His persistent nudge has led me to let go of the expectations I have for the new year and will allow me to embrace what each month brings as it passes. I just have to remember to listen to it.
We tend to see the younger versions of ourselves as immature and incomplete and someone to let go of as we evolve. But those children inside us hold on to parts of ourselves that we may need to become the people we still hope to become.
I’ve been held hostage to self-loathing and perfectionism in recent years, but thanks to my inner tween, next year’s resolutions are all about liberation. I will go swimming with friends even if I feel nervous in my bathing suit. I will submit my book proposal even though I am afraid of rejection. I will celebrate my joy even if I feel I must deny it.