...And a regulated nervous system allows you to be more yourself

Most of us know, somewhere in us, that it would be good to be kinder to ourselves.

We know we probably shouldn’t speak to ourselves in that harsh, relentless way. We know we wouldn’t talk to a friend like that. We may even have read the books, heard the podcasts, done the therapy, and said the sentence many times:

“I need to be more self-compassionate.”

And yet, when something happens, when we feel we’ve got it wrong, disappointed someone, not done enough, done too much, said the wrong thing, failed to say the right thing, eaten the Easter egg, not replied to the message, rested instead of doing the useful thing…

The old voice can come in very quickly.

It may not even sound dramatic. It might simply be a familiar inner pressure. A tightening. A pushing. A sense that we should be different from how we are.

You should have known better.
You should be further along by now.
You’re too much.
You’re not enough.
What’s wrong with you?

And there we are. Not in softness. Not in kindness. Not in self-compassion. But in an internal fight.

And this matters.

Not because we need to become “nice” to ourselves as some sweet little self-care idea. But because this internal harshness affects the nervous system. It creates pressure. It creates threat. It creates contraction.

And when the nervous system is under threat, it becomes much harder to be ourselves.

What does self-compassion have to do with being yourself?

In Being Me Therapy, we are always exploring this central question:

What happened to us that moved us away from being fully ourselves?

Because most of us, in childhood, had to move away from our natural state in order to fit in with what was wanted, expected, tolerated, or allowed around us.

And I say that with a lot of tenderness.

The little ones we were did not sit there thinking, “Ah, I see, I must now adapt myself to preserve attachment.” No. Our bodies did it. Our nervous systems did it. Our beautiful, clever, mammal bodies did whatever was needed to stay connected to the bigger ones, to stay loved, to stay safe enough, to belong.

So perhaps we became good. Or pleasing. Or quiet. Or useful. Or clever. Or funny. Or invisible. Or endlessly strong.

And often, in that process, we also learned to push and pull ourselves. We learned to become hard on ourselves, just as others may have been hard on us, or just as life was hard around us.

That hardness can become very familiar. Not necessarily pleasant, but familiar.

And this is one of the reasons self-compassion can feel surprisingly difficult. We might think it should be simple. “Just be kinder to yourself.” Lovely. Easy. Done.

Except, not quite.

Because for many of us, the hard voice has been around for a very long time. It may feel like the thing that keeps us safe, keeps us going, keeps us acceptable, keeps us in control.

So when we begin to soften towards ourselves, something in us may relax.

But something else may get scared.

Why self-criticism can feel so normal

For many people, self-criticism feels almost like the natural way to improve.

If I’m hard enough on myself, I’ll do better. If I shame myself enough, I’ll change. If I push myself enough, I’ll finally become acceptable.

But let’s just pause there.

Notice what happens in your body when you hear those sentences.

There may be tightening. A sinking. A bracing. A small collapse. A bit of, “Oh yes, that old thing.”

This is not neutral.

Self-attack is not simply a thought. It is an event in the body.

When we attack ourselves, even quietly, even in very familiar ways, the body often experiences threat. The nervous system responds. And then the system may go into fight, flight, freeze, collapse, pleasing, managing, performing or hiding.

So the very strategy we may be using to try and “improve” ourselves can actually take us further away from the relaxed, present, alive place where real change becomes possible.

Isn’t that interesting?

And also slightly annoying.

Because the thing we think is helping might actually be keeping us stuck.

A regulated nervous system creates new possibilities

One of the most beautiful things I see in this work is what happens when someone becomes more regulated.

Not perfectly calm. Not sorted forever. Not floating around like a spiritual marshmallow. Just more here.

More in the body. More able to breathe. More able to feel what is there without being swallowed by it. More able to notice.

And then, quite often, something new becomes possible.

An insight comes. A feeling that was stuck begins to move. A choice becomes available. A truth can be spoken. A “no” or a “yes” becomes clearer. A person comes back to themselves.

This is why self-compassion is not a soft extra.

It is not the fluffy bit after the “real work.” It is part of the real work.

Because self-compassion helps dissolve threat. And when threat softens, the nervous system can begin to regulate.

And when the nervous system regulates, we have more access to ourselves.

Self-compassion is not letting yourself off the hook

A lot of people have a fear around self-compassion.

If I’m kind to myself, will I become lazy? Will I stop caring? Will I let myself get away with things? Will I become selfish? Will I lose my edge?

This is very common.

Because for many of us, harshness has been confused with responsibility. We think the whip keeps us going.

And sometimes, yes, it has kept us going. It may have helped us survive. It may have helped us perform. It may have helped us stay acceptable in environments where being soft, messy, tired, angry, needy or different was not welcome.

So of course it can feel scary to put the whip down.

Of course it can feel strange to say, “Well done me,” especially for something we would normally criticise ourselves for.

Well done me for resting when I was tired.
Well done me for not people pleasing.
Well done me for not getting everything done.
Well done me for walking away.
Well done me for needing time on my own.
Well done me for being me.

There can be such a strange and lovely rebellion in that.

Because we are not praising ourselves for being perfect. We are acknowledging the places where, in the past, we might have attacked ourselves.

And something in the body often softens when we do that.

Not always immediately. Not always neatly. But often, something begins to shift.

The old “wrong me” feeling

In developmental trauma work, we often come back to a very painful, very important movement.

When we are little, we have real biological needs. We need connection, attunement, safety, warmth, approval, space, and room to have our feelings. We need our autonomy to be respected. We need our little being to be received.

These are not luxuries. They are needs.

And when those needs are not met, the child’s body experiences stress.

But here is the tricky bit.

A child cannot easily think, “My environment is not meeting me properly.”

That would be too terrifying, because the child depends on the environment. The child depends on the parents, the family, the bigger ones.

So instead, the wrongness often gets turned inward.

Something feels wrong, so I must be wrong.

Bad feeling becomes bad me. An unmet need becomes a wrong need. Natural expression becomes too much. A beautiful life energy becomes something to suppress.

And then begins the long, exhausting journey of trying to fix ourselves.

If I behave better, maybe I’ll be loved. If I need less, maybe I’ll be accepted. If I become useful, maybe I’ll be safe. If I stop being so me, maybe I’ll belong.

This is where self-attack can begin.

Not because there was anything wrong with us, but because making ourselves wrong helped preserve attachment.

That is such a big thing to understand. And not just understand in the head, but feel in the body.

There was nothing wrong with the child. There was nothing wrong with the need. There was nothing wrong with the natural expression.

But something had to be suppressed in order to fit in.

Self-attack is often a lid on life energy

I often use the image of a lid in this work.

Because so much of what we call “self-criticism” is actually a lid on something more alive underneath.

It may be a lid on anger. Or sadness. Or protest. Or desire. Or rest. Or joy. Or wanting. Or not wanting. Or being gloriously, inconveniently, beautifully yourself.

The lid might sound like:

Don’t be silly.
Don’t need that.
Don’t say that.
Don’t be selfish.
Don’t rest.
Don’t make a fuss.
Don’t be too pleased with yourself.
Don’t be too alive.

And for a long time, we may believe the lid is who we are.

We might say, “I’m just kind and I love helping others,” or “I’m just a perfectionist,” or “I’m a control freak” (said with some pride!).

But often, underneath that pattern, there is something much more tender.

There is a part of us that learned it was safer to suppress something natural than to risk the consequences of expressing it.

So when we begin to bring self-compassion to these places, we are not just being “positive.” We are softening the lid.

We are saying to the old suppressed life energy:

Maybe you are not wrong.
Maybe you are welcome.
Maybe you are safe enough now.
Maybe I can listen.

And that is where the work becomes very tender.

Because often, underneath the self-attack, there is a younger part of us still trying to survive in the old environment.

Why self-compassion can feel frightening

This is one of the things I find so important to say.

Self-compassion can feel lovely, yes. It can feel softening, comforting, relaxing, relieving.

But it can also feel scary.

If harshness was part of how you survived, then softness may not immediately feel safe. If making yourself wrong helped you preserve the rightness of the people you depended on, then saying, “Actually, maybe I wasn’t wrong,” can shake something very old.

It can feel like you are going against the family rules. The old roles. The ancient survival agreement.

Because the old pattern may have been:

They are right. I am wrong.
Their feelings matter. Mine don’t.
Their needs come first. Mine can wait.
Their approval keeps me safe. My authenticity is risky.

So when self-compassion comes in, it is not always a gentle scented candle moment.

Sometimes it is radical.

Sometimes it says, “I was not wrong for needing that.”
Sometimes it says, “I was not bad for feeling that.”
Sometimes it says, “I was not selfish for wanting space.”
Sometimes it says, “I do not have to keep fighting myself in order to belong.”

And no wonder the nervous system needs time.

This is why we go gently.

A simple self-compassion practice

You might like to try this very gently.

Not as homework. Not as a fixing project. Just as an exploration.

Take a moment and ask yourself:

"How am I mean to myself?"

Not in order to attack yourself for attacking yourself. That would be the sneaky extra layer. Very clever, but no thank you.

Just notice.

Where do you criticise yourself? Where do you push yourself beyond your real capacity? Where do you tell yourself you should be different? Where do you abandon yourself? Where do you make yourself wrong?

As you notice one thing, bring attention to the body.

What happens in your jaw, your throat, your chest, your belly, your breathing, your energy?

Then ask:

"Where might this have come from?"

Was there a place in your family or childhood where this part of you was not welcomed?

Was rest allowed? Was anger allowed? Were needs allowed? Was softness allowed? Was being different allowed? Was saying no allowed? Was being ordinary allowed? Was being brilliant allowed?

Just notice what comes.

And then, very gently, ask:

"What does that child part of me need from me now?"

Not from the parents. Not from the old environment. Not from the people who could not give it then.

From you now.

Maybe that child part needs warmth. Maybe a hand on the heart. Maybe a sentence. Maybe a picture. Maybe a breath. Maybe a “well done me.” Maybe a “you were never wrong.” Maybe a “I’m here now.” Maybe a “you can stop fighting.” Maybe a “you are allowed to rest.”

See if you can let the body feel it, even a little.

Because it is not enough to think self-compassion.

The body needs to feel it.

That is where regulation begins.

What happens when we stop fighting ourselves?

There is often a huge amount of energy tied up in self-attack.

Holding things down takes energy. Pretending takes energy. Pushing takes energy. Trying to be acceptable takes energy. Fighting yourself takes energy.

So when the fight softens, something becomes available.

Sometimes it is relief. Sometimes sadness. Sometimes anger. Sometimes tiredness. Sometimes joy. Sometimes a lovely, quiet, ordinary sense of being here.

This is not always dramatic.

Sometimes it is very simple.

A little more breath. A little less tightness. A little more honesty. A little more warmth towards yourself. A little more room inside.

And in that room, you may discover something that has been waiting.

A need. A truth. A boundary. A softness. A wildness. A no. A yes.

A little child.
A grown-up you.
A more real you.

Being more yourself is not another performance

This is very important.

Being more yourself is not another thing to get right.

It is not a shiny, perfected version of you. It is not the “healed” you who never gets triggered, never people pleases, never eats the Easter egg, never says the wrong thing, never collapses on the sofa instead of doing the hoovering.

No.

Being more yourself is often much more human than that.

It may include the part of you that needs rest. The part that does not want to send the happy birthday message. The part that needs time alone. The part that is tired of fighting. The part that wants to sit and do nothing. The part that says, “Actually, I don’t want to.”

The part that says, “Well done me for being me.”

This is not indulgence.

This is reconnection.

Exploring this inside Being Me Therapy

Inside Being Me Therapy, we explore these themes not just as ideas, but through the body, through sharing, through gentle process, and through the places where something begins to shift from the head into the rest of us.

Because many of us already know, intellectually, that we “should” be kinder to ourselves.

But the deeper questions are different.

Can the body believe it?
Can the nervous system feel safe enough?
Can the younger parts receive it?
Can the old lids soften?
Can something more alive begin to emerge?

This is the kind of work we do inside the membership.

Not fixing. Not forcing. Not becoming a better, shinier, more acceptable person.

But gently, curiously, courageously coming back to ourselves.

With self-compassion. With self-kindness. With the body included. With the little parts included. With the messy, funny, tender, human parts included.

Because a regulated nervous system allows you to be more yourself.

And maybe, just maybe, self-compassion is one of the ways we begin to find our way back.

So perhaps today, you can find one small thing to say:

"Well done me."