I hugged myself today

I cried my eyes out at a respectable time, midnight, when the world was silent and no one could see me hurt.
A “respectable” place would have been the toilet or locked away in a closet, but I cried on my bed. Wild and open, letting my tears feel free and safe in the dark where no one could find them.

You see, I struggle with putting my feelings in the care of others.
I crave it, deeply, but I’m scared of it too.

It’s strange, because I come across as open.
I’m someone you’d consider an open book. I’ll tell you my problems in a way that keeps me safe. I’ll tell you things I can easily throw away, things that, if push came to shove, wouldn’t hurt me if they resurfaced.
Because for some reason, I feel like no one is capable of holding the core of my being with the highest care, the way I would hold myself.

And the irony? I’m an empath. I would hold your worries like they’re mine. I’d seek to understand your habits, your patterns, and if I can, fully immerse myself in your life. But when the tables are turned, I hold back. I give little pockets of myself, only what I think you can handle.

So one day, I thought to try something new.
With shaky hands, a runny nose, and a growing headache, I wrapped my arms across my shoulders, softly patted my head, and whispered to myself that everything was going to be fine.

I hated it.
It made me cry even more.

The emptiness of it.
It’s so silly to think I would resort to hugging myself when all I really wanted was someone else’s arms. Anyone’s arms apart from mine.
I hated the feeling that I had to watch my own back, that I had to be the one to care for myself, because deep down, I didn't trust anyone else with the softness and range of my emotions.

As wild and complex as that sounds... it’s my truth.

But in as much as I hated it, it was calming too.
The ability to bring myself up, to hold myself together, felt strangely uplifting.
It reminded me that I got me.

Another core memory that stayed with me from my teenage years holds a similar weight.
I love when someone plays with my hair.
The gentle tracing of patterns, the slow brushing, even pretending to look for non-existent dirt, it knocks me right out. I fall asleep in minutes.
(I have a theory it was done a lot to me as a baby. Maybe that’s why I always reach out for it.)

Back in secondary school, I had a friend who would do this for me all the time. She'd trace the cornrows on my scalp, talk about random things from her day, and sometimes make up ridiculous stories as she went.
It was heaven.
And, as expected, I would sleep like a baby.

But one day, she got tired. She wasn't up for it anymore. She needed time for herself.
Respectfully, I let her be. She had given me comfort countless times without complaint, if she wanted a break, then by all means.

So, I tried to do it myself.
I traced the patterns of my own hair. I brushed it lightly.
But it didn’t feel the same.
It felt hollow.
The magic wasn’t there. I didn’t fall asleep.

It wasn’t until late 2023 that I came across the true meaning and principle of self-soothing.
It means knowing how to calm ourselves down, how to comfort our own minds, especially when anxiety or fear spikes high.
It’s a mix of behaviors and self-talk.

The revelation stuck with me.

At first, I thought self-soothing meant replicating the things I craved from others. The hugs, the head pats, the hair play.
But every time I tried, it left me feeling more deprived than comforted.
I felt foolish, trying to fill a hole by myself that I knew needed someone else’s presence.

It took me a while to realize that self-soothing isn’t about pretending you don’t need people.
It’s not about replacing touch or connection.
It’s simply about calming your own thoughts, letting yourself land softly when you’re spiralling.

So I tried out my updated version of it.
Without even noticing, I had started talking to myself during anxious moments.
Especially after the robbery attack I went through, when fear would randomly show up and grip me by the throat, I started whispering to myself:

You’re safe.
You’re loved.
Your feelings are valid.
It’s okay to be scared right now. But you’re going to be fine.

I didn’t shame myself for feeling anxious, I validated it first.
Like a parent soothing a crying child.

And the more I did it, the more peace I felt.

I started applying this practice in other areas of my life too. When money anxiety crept in, when loneliness knocked too loud, when self-doubt tried to steal my joy.
I’d affirm myself.
I’d remind myself that I’m provided for, that my efforts aren’t in vain, that God is with me and His promises still stand strong, even when I can’t feel them.
(I believe in Jesus Christ, so speaking God’s word over myself has become another form of self-soothing.)

Other times, I’d simply lean into what made me happy.
Rewatch old shows that made me laugh.
Take myself on quiet dates.
Discover new places.
Do small, happy things to remind myself that life is still good, that I am still good.

But I always start with validation first.
Always.
Because pretending you’re fine doesn’t heal anything.
Acknowledging that you’re hurting does.

And now I know, self-soothing isn't about becoming so strong you don’t need anyone.
It’s about knowing that even in the loneliest moments, you can be your own safe space.
It’s about remembering that you got you, while still leaving room for others to love you deeply too, someday.

It’s an unending journey.
But so far, it’s been a beautiful one.

I hugged myself today, and I hated it.
But in a way, it opened me up to something more.