The hard part of being healthy isn’t the exercise and eating right. That part is easy. Or, rather, it’s straight forward. Run a few miles, do some deadlifts, eat some veggies, etc. Motivation wanes and sometimes I’m lazy , but getting back on track is simple enough. There’s no mystery.

I’m know I’m lucky. When I finally decided to get in shape and start taking care of myself, I didn’t have any chronic diseases to combat. All my bits function more or less the way they’re supposed to. I have access to well-stocked grocery stores. I have time to cook at home (or, more accurately, I have a husband who has time and enjoys cooking cause I do not).

It makes that part of the equation doable, even when I don’t want to do it.

Where it gets hard for me is everything above the neck. My mental health is the real challenge to me being my best self. My brain, with its anxiety and depression and self-esteem issues, is the weak link. Tired legs won’t keep me from running (usually), but the overwhelming weight of anxiety might.

My brain so often feels like the enemy. Anxiety makes everything feel fraught with danger. My self-esteem issues make everything I do seem not good enough, which then leads to a spiral of ‘why bother’ and ‘you’ll never succeed’. If I go for a run and my pace is slower than expected, if I have to lift lighter than I know I can, my internal narrative turns to self-loathing and mocking. There is no bully quite as cruel as the one inside my own head.

“I’m the worst” is my default whenever I do something wrong. And I mean anything. Trip over my own feet? I’m the worst? Give in to temptation and have a donut and a bag of chips? I’m the worst. Can’t fall asleep fast enough at night? I’m the worst. Cut a workout short because I’m having a panic attack. I’m the worst.

Self-deprecation is a tongue as native to me as English, and it is so ingrained that not bashing myself feels wrong. If I try stop myself, and say, “hey, you did a great job today”, my brain rebels and tries to shift away from that kindness. Being mean feels right. It feels true. Self-compassion and self-confidence sit so awkwardly in my heart. Saying something good about myself sits heavily on my tongue. I want to swallow the words, and hide them away.

This, for me, is the real battle. It’s waking up every day and walking around in my own head, and trying to change the channel when the Self-Loathing Propaganda Network plays on repeat. It’s doing something wrong or imperfectly and not reaching immediately for scorn. But I wouldn’t dare say to a friend what I say to myself, so why do I think it’s okay to do it to myself?

I have never practiced patience with myself. I have never tried kindness. Ever since a friend left a note on an anonymous messaging app challenging me to stop saying self-deprecating things, I’ve been aware of just how intrinsic that language is to my day-to-day inner monologue. And I’ve realized that it’s not just how it is. I can change that. I can step away from the familiar and the comfortable and learn the scary art of self-appreciation.

It’s hard. It’s really, really, really hard. But every day I learn to step back and untangle that voice from the one that’s a little quieter, the one that says “hey, you got this. You did good, and, if you didn’t do it right, that’s okay.” I believe that, eventually, that voice will be the louder.

And, eventually, I will learn to listen.