The Honey Edit

When I speak kinder to myself, it changes how I speak to everyone else.

Here’s the thing I’m learning: the way I talk to myself quietly seeps into how I show up for everyone else. For years, my inner monologue was a bit like an overzealous courtroom prosecutor, always ready to pounce, always assuming the worst. I’d walk into conversations braced for judgment, second-guessing everything from my words to my shoes.

But lately? Life has handed me an extra helping of “Are you kidding me?” Between a torn hip cartilage, prepping for foot surgery, and all the creative new noises my joints are making, my usual routines have been turned upside down. I move slower. Most days, rehab means I’m celebrating doing a handful of tiny isometric movements and calling that a win. And honestly, I thought hitting menopause was hard. Apparently, that was just the warm-up act. The universe really went for an encore on this one.

Oh, and did I mention Christmas is right around the corner? As if I needed another reminder that life doesn’t pause for anyone’s rehab schedule or orthopedic shoe order. If you see me wrapping gifts from the comfort of the living room floor, just know I’m embracing the spirit of making it work.

The wild part is that all this, as inconvenient and sometimes hilarious as it is, is forcing me to show up in a whole new way. Physically, yes, but also in how I speak to myself. I can’t just willpower my way through pain or frustration. My body calls the shots now, so I have to meet myself with patience and a little more grace than before. I’ve started cheering for the tiniest progress, like being able to stand a few minutes longer or just not swearing at my own reflection in the morning.

That shift is changing how I show up with other people, too. I’m less likely to shrink back or over-explain. There’s less apologizing for existing, more saying what I think and trusting it has a place. Disagreements don’t send me spiraling like they used to, because I’m not already weighed down by my own criticism before the conversation even starts.

Honestly, the confidence I’m rebuilding is quieter, but it’s sturdier. I don’t need to bulldoze my way into a room, but I’m done tiptoeing, too. I just get to be here, yoga pants, orthopedic shoes, and all. If you catch me wearing real pants at a dinner party, just know it’s probably laundry day or a dare.

So, here’s my honest takeaway: the way I talk to myself sets the tone for every other relationship I have. Gentler inside means braver outside. Turns out, a little humor and a lot of patience go a long way.

If your inner voice sounded more like your best friend, how would it change the way you show up in your world?