We need to talk about me. I mean me. Not the version I present to the world, not the polished façade or the carefully crafted image. Just me—raw, imperfect, sometimes unbearable me.

Do I even like myself? I’m not sure I’ve ever really asked that question out loud, but it’s been circling in my mind like a shadow. Not love myself—that’s a commandment, right? Love your neighbor as yourself. But liking yourself? That feels so much harder, doesn’t it? Loving is a duty, but liking… that’s personal. That’s a choice.

I wonder sometimes, if I stripped away all the titles, all the expectations, all the moments where I tell myself I’m doing my best—what’s left? Would I like the person staring back at me? Would I be proud of them, or would I turn away in disappointment?

I think God likes me—or at least He must, right? He made me. He knows every corner of my mind, every fault, every hope, every failure. And yet, I can’t help but feel uneasy with the thought that He sees everything. The thought of being fully known—every crack, every scar—terrifies me. But maybe that’s where the answer lies. Maybe liking myself isn’t about perfection; maybe it’s about being honest, even with the mess.

If I’m honest, though, I don’t know where to start. How do I learn to like someone I’ve spent so much time criticizing? How do I stop being my own worst enemy? Maybe that’s why I’m writing this down—so it’s not just swirling around in my head, heavy and unspoken. Maybe putting it here will make it real enough to confront.

I don’t need to be perfect. I don’t even need to be someone others like. I just need to find that small, quiet part of me that can look in the mirror and say, “You’re trying, and that’s enough.” Maybe that’s where grace begins. Maybe that’s where I begin.