I think most people would describe me as a pretty nice girl. And I am, to everyone but myself. I spent years tearing myself down, piece by bloody piece, until all that was left was a very broken, very sad girl. And then I had a baby. And my god, how I loved that baby. She was so perfect, so incredibly beautiful, and every ounce of my being knew she was the most worthy, precious soul that ever lived. I wanted her to know that. I wanted her to know that she was beautiful and loved and good. But I realized that I would never be able to teach her those things, and have her truly believe them, unless she knew that I saw them in myself, too. No one would want to learn how to sail around the globe from a man who believed the world was flat. So I have spent the last seven years slowly rebuilding myself, finding all the parts that I hated and rejected and stripped away and meticulously piecing this person back together.

One of the most important things I have learned through all this work is never to listen to Thought Number One. Thought Number One comes from my old self, from the sick and tattered mind of the girl who knew she was unacceptable. Thought Number One pops up all the time, and it is so immediate and sly that often times it slips by without me even noticing how terribly cruel it is. It says things like, “Of course those pants don’t fit you! Haven’t you seen how disgusting your thighs are?” and “This guy will never want to date you- you’re the most undesirable creature on the planet!” and “Your car is a mess because you’re a mess- even Jesus hates you!”

Thought Number One is an asshole. And Thought Number One always, always lies.

It’s the second thought, the quieter, gentler thought, that speaks the truth. The second thought sees things through the eyes of this whole and healthy me, the one who knows that she is loved and fundamentally okay. The second thought tells me that things are never as wild and drastic as Thought Number One, ever the drama queen, would have me believe. The second thought calms me, smoothes out the crinkles in my worried forehead. It tells me that the pants don’t fit because I need a different size- it has nothing to do with my thighs. And that the men I know are just as confused as I am about life and love, and besides, it’s never good to judge my self-worth by how often I get asked out. The second thought admires my messy car because it’s a testament to how busy and full my life is. And the second thought knows that god adores every inch of beautiful, messy me.

It’s hard, because listening to Thought Number One became such a habit that its cruel, terrible voice became more familiar to me than my own. But I know now that if I believe that voice, I end up wounded. I feel hopeless and black and I tend to make awful decisions. No good decision was ever made based on a lie. So I practice listening to the second thought, I practice waiting for it to come and tell me what is true. Sitting quietly and waiting for the voice of love and reason to show up is incredibly difficult for a girl who’s entire life has been built on rash decisions, but it’s so, so rewarding. So I do it; I stop. I wait. And every time, without fail, the truth is whispered in my ear.