If self-compassion is so good for us, why don’t we do it?
After a decade of teaching self-compassion and a lifetime of living with our own madwomen, we’ve found three reasons why this whole self-compassion thing, which seems so appealing, might be surprisingly difficult.
Self-Compassion Is Hard, Part 1: We Need Our Whips…Don’t We?
A lot of us spend our lives pushing ourselves to work harder, do more, be better; feeling like a failure when we fall short of someone’s expectation; and chastising ourselves for “being arrogant” if we celebrate a success or “settling” if we accept something short of perfection. Often when we experience the chasm between us and expected-us, the madwoman whips us—that is, we whip ourselves. Perversely, we’ve also spent our lives achieving everything that we’ve achieved so far, whether that’s academic degrees, escaping an unstable family life, attaining financial success, or building a family of our own.
This is the tragedy of the madwoman. She whips us, and we achieve things. And so we think the whipping is why we achieved things and we’ll never achieve anything without the whipping.
This is the most common reason we hear when people resist self-compassion. They’re worried that if they stop beating themselves up, they’ll lose all motivation, they’ll just sit around watching Real Housewives of Anywhere and eating Lucky Charms in a bowl full of Bud Light.
This argument doesn’t stand up to even the most superficial investigation. Are we really working toward our goals only because we’ll torture ourselves if we stop, so that as soon as we put down the whip we’ll sink into eternal apathy? Of course not. In fact, it’s the opposite: We only whip ourselves because our goals matter so much that we’re willing to suffer this self-inflicted pain if that’s what it takes. And we believe that because we’ve always done it that way, it must be why we’ve accomplished as much as we have.
Diligent practice of self-compassion works; it lowers stress hormones and improves mood.8 And many years of research have confirmed that self-forgiveness is associated with greater physical and mental well-being.9 All without diminishing your motivation to do the things that matter to you.
Many women reading this will find, when they confront their madwoman’s harsh criticism and toxic perfectionism, that deep down they know they are doing their best and they can forgive themselves for the ways their best sometimes falls short. They can begin to notice the ways they whip themselves, and practice putting down the whip, because they see that it’s not the whip that makes them stronger; it’s their persistence, their relationships, their ability to rest. They know that self-kindness helps them grow mightier, and they want that strength.
But for some of us, a harsh, toxic madwoman is telling us we don’t deserve lower stress or improved mood. She says it’s right that we should suffer; we don’t deserve kindness or compassion or to grow mighty. And so she will punish us forever, no matter what we achieve.
This dynamic is not just self-criticism, it’s self-persecution.10 Folks with more history of abuse and neglect, parental rejection and humiliation are more likely to experience harsh self-criticism and react to it with a sense of helplessness and isolation.11 When people with depression try to be self-reassuring, their brains respond with threat activation.12 In fact, fear of compassion for self is linked to fear of compassion from others. That means that somewhere inside them, they believe that if they’re isolated, that’s good; isolation protects others from their real, core badness. And if they’re suffering, that’s good; it prevents them from growing mighty, which might lead to them having power that they would inevitably fail to use effectively, or might even abuse.
If that’s you, don’t start with self-compassion; start with lovingkindness toward others. Metta meditations, as they’re known in Buddhism, involve wishing love, compassion, peace, and ease on everyone from the people we care about most to people we hardly know to total strangers to our worst enemies—and even on ourselves. When self-compassion feels out of reach, try lovingkindness for others.
It was reckoning with her madwoman that finally allowed Julie to feel comfortable with imperfection.
Amelia told her about the idea, including the whole Jane Eyre thing, which the English teacher in her loved.
“So that’s your madwoman?” Julie asked. “Bertha in a back room?”
“I think so, yeah,” Amelia said. “She’s insane and dangerous, but she’s also trapped up there by society’s ignorance. I have a lot of sympathy for her.”
“How about Emily? What’s her madwoman?”
“Have you seen Moana?”
“Only about seven hundred times. I have a kid, remember.”
“Emily says her madwoman is Te K?, the scary lava monster who, it turns out, is also Te Fiti, the goddess of life.”
“Huh. It’s interesting that neither one is what she appears on the surface,” Julie said. “I’m gonna think about this.”
She did. At first, she thought her madwoman was a “perfect” version of herself. The perfect wife and mother, the perfect teacher, the perfect friend, the perfect daughter. Perfect. Cheerful, patient, wise, effortlessly good at everything, never needing anything. Casually contemptuous of real Julie, with her needs and her flaws and her human limits.
Worst of all, Perfect Julie made Julie mean not just to herself but to other people. Sometimes she criticized other people. Sometimes she was mean to Jeremy, for not living up to Perfect Julie’s standards.
But one Saturday afternoon, she got home from physical therapy to find Diana and Jeremy at the kitchen table together, Diana doing homework, Jeremy grading. Julie looked at her daughter and wondered what kind of madwoman was growing in the young girl’s brain, wondered how she was coping with the absurd expectations the world was just beginning to impose on her.
And she realized “Perfect Julie” was just a defense she had constructed, to protect her real madwoman—who wasn’t a woman at all, but a little girl.
This little girl was sensitive and afraid of rejection. She loved books and theater. She put on “Perfect Julie” the way a little girl might put on her mother’s shoes and lipstick, playing pretend. She wore “adulting” as a costume. It had been a game at first, like playing house, back when she was Diana’s age. But as Julie had gotten older, the Perfect Julie costume became necessary to disguise the fact that she was, underneath it all, just a girl who didn’t want to make anyone mad.
Once she saw through her madwoman’s fa?ade, the rest was easy. From that day on, when she felt the contempt of Perfect Julie, she could turn toward that critical voice as she would to any little girl, hiding behind a mask.
“Hey, kiddo,” she could tell herself. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
She could hold the imaginary little girl in her grown-up lap and reassure her that no one was mad and it’s okay to need things. People will be there for her.
Self-Compassion Is Hard, Part 2: Healing Hurts
For decades, whenever you found yourself falling short of some standard—grades not good enough, face not pretty enough, emotions not controlled enough, loved ones not happy enough—you flayed yourself with the whip, and you worked harder. Each time, the whip opened up wounds in your soul, reopened old wounds, and stung and hurt and made you bleed.