the way the light hits the old brick outside my kitchen window… late in Richmond always felt like a secret, the kind you weren't supposed to tell and asking what it was afraid of… the inner critic, i mean. hadn't ever occurred to me that it might BE afraid, just… mean. it’s like asking the bully what’s making him act like that isn’t it… and then seeing a scared kid. and then feeling sorry for it? is that allowed? feeling… tenderness for the thing that keeps me small… feels like i’m betraying myself. and what if that’s the ONLY way out. Firing the kiln is always a gamble. You arrange everything with care, but there's always that cold spot, that one piece that melts into a puddle, teaching you humility. Maybe tenderness for the inner critic is just acknowledging that it, too, is a flawed thing made in the fire. I used to think self-compassion was just another way to avoid being "productive." Turns out, the only way to dismantle the whip is to realize the hand holding it is just as scared and tired. It's not betraying myself to offer it rest; it's finally understanding the assignment.