If you know me or have been following my blog, you know I’m pretty open about my past struggles. I am quick to disclose snippets of my history, because a) it makes me authentic and b) I no longer let those experiences define me. By externalizing them, I gain control of them.

As Brene Brown says, “Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable. Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.”

Although I have always owned my story, once I became a psychotherapist, I had to be even more intentional with owning my own story and having awareness surrounding when and with whom to share it. All of this being said, it is no secret that I have struggled with confidence for much of my life. Most of my confidence issues relate to struggles with body image.

A few years ago, I hired a personal trainer (who since has become a friend) to help me look better (both a subjective an elusive adjective) for my wedding. I should preface this by saying that me wanting to “look better” meant me waiting to lose weight. After the event, the trainer and I kept in touch, and became friends. However, this friendship was different than many others, as we often spoke about my body. A topic I generally try to avoid, or laugh off, at best. Many of our conversations centered around my current eating and workout habits.

While I was grateful for her legitimate concern about me achieving my goals, a part of me always felt angry. Every time she saw me, she’d comment on my weight or appearance. Despite the fact that these comments were always positive, not only did this remind me of other people in my earlier life who did this, which gets tied up (at least for me and my perception of it all) in conditional love, which was incredibly saddening and triggering, but every single time, the asshole voice in my head would turn her compliments into an insult about the version of me she last saw.

“If I look good today, it means I didn’t look as good last time. If she says I look stronger, it means last time I looked weaker or saggier. What happens if next time I see her she doesn’t compliment me? Have I become saggy again? Can she tell I’ve been slacking off? Worse yet, is she disappointed or judging me?”.

These thoughts would churn like butter in my head, over and over, to the degree it made it difficult to want to spend time with her. I didn’t want a friend that noticed my weight. Her compliments were stirring old voices that I have worked diligently to silent.

Similarly, not too long ago, I was speaking with one of my very closest friends on the phone. I mentioned something about my body, and she said “you look better and more in shape than I’ve ever seen you before. I’m so impressed with your diligence and commitment to fitness”. For some reason this compliment angered me. Again, it was a reminder of how badly I must have looked before, and what happens if I stop working out so diligently?

The point of these stories is not to hurt either of the individuals mentioned in this blog or point out their insensitivity. Rather, it is to illustrate a much deeper issue. The notion that when one’s confidence is low, even the most well-intended compliment can trigger a series of self-inflicted emotional gunshots.

The very fact that I reacted as I did to the aforementioned situations tells me a lot about where I am in my own recovery process. It’s hard not to personalize things, no matter how well-intended another might be. It’s hard to hear “you look great today” and not think “gee, do I look like shit every other time you see me?”.

As much as I help my clients on their own journeys, I also continually try to help myself. To remind myself that a compliment is a compliment. That the emotional reaction I have to it says everything about where I am in my process and nothing about how horrible or ill-intended my friends are.

If we could all learn that our (and everyone else’s) reactions simply speak to where we/they are in our/their process, and nothing about us as individuals, how liberated (and beautiful) we all would feel.