Mindful Self-Talk: Learning to Be Kinder to Myself
Written By Latosha Walker
Founder & CEO, Wondering.Waves | Military Spouse | Creator | Storyteller
Published: November 6, 2025
This is Day 6 of my ongoing mindfulness series—a personal journey through gentle awareness, self-compassion, and learning to treat myself with the same kindness I offer others.
Lately, I’ve been paying closer attention to the voice running in the background of my mind. Sometimes it’s gentle and encouraging, but more often, it’s a critic—quick to remind me of every awkward moment, every time I don’t measure up, every reason I should stay quiet. I didn’t always notice it, but now I realize: my self-talk was shaped by childhood bullying, by the subtle rules about who belonged and who didn’t, and by the weight of old expectations.
The Weight of Old Stories
It’s strange how those old tapes play on, even as an adult. “You’re too much.” “No one wants to hear what you have to say.” “Why bother?” Some days, I can brush them off. Other days, they echo so loudly I find myself shrinking away from new experiences or holding back in conversations—especially in person.
Latosha journals with a cup of tea and a pink blanket, embracing a mindful moment of self-kindness in her cozy San Angelo home.
When Self-Talk Gets Loud
I notice my self-talk most on mornings when I’m getting ready to leave the house. There’s a familiar ritual: I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, pulling my hair into its usual messy bun, adjusting my glasses, and giving myself one last look. The voice is there, soft but insistent: “You look tired. Are you sure you’re ready for today?” Sometimes, I try to brush it off, but it lingers.
It’s especially loud on days when I’m heading to a military spouse event like Coffee Connections. I remember one morning not too long ago—my hands were shaking a little as I poured coffee into my travel mug. I rehearsed what I might say if someone asked about my crochet business or about my family, but underneath the surface, I was already doubting whether I belonged.
The drive over was filled with a mix of hope and dread. I watched other spouses gather in small groups as I walked in, their laughter already echoing through the room. My heart pounded as I paused outside the door, clutching my tote bag. “What if you say something awkward? What if you don’t fit in? Maybe you should just turn around and go home.”
But I made myself step inside. I chose a seat near the edge of the group, hoping I’d be able to join in without feeling too exposed. The conversation swirled around me—stories of PCS moves, deployment woes, funny kid moments. I wanted to jump in, to share my own story, but every time I opened my mouth, someone else spoke first or the topic shifted. It felt like my words got stuck somewhere between my heart and my lips.
By the end of the event, I’d barely spoken, except to answer a direct question with a quick, polite reply. On the drive home, my self-talk was relentless: “See? You don’t belong. You’re too quiet. Why do you even try?” The sadness and frustration settled in, heavier than before.
Looking back, I wish I could have offered myself a little more grace. I was brave just for showing up. I’m learning that sometimes, the victory is in walking through the door, even if I don’t say much at all.
Other times, it shows up when I’m about to post something new on my blog or social media. I’ll hover over the “publish” button, and suddenly the doubts creep in: “Is this even good enough? Will anyone care?” Sometimes, I listen to that voice and talk myself out of sharing. But on braver days, I’ll pause, take a breath, and remind myself that my story is worth telling—imperfections and all.
The Spiral of Self-Criticism, Anxiety, and Depression
When anxiety and depression creep in, my inner critic gets even louder. It’s like my mind is holding up a magnifying glass to every mistake or awkward moment. “Why can’t you just get it together? Everyone else seems to manage.” It doesn’t help—it just makes the anxiety and sadness heavier.
What helps is noticing when the spiral starts. Sometimes, I pause and take a deep breath, or step outside for a few minutes. But more often than not, I reach for my journal. There’s something grounding about the feel of a pen in my hand and the sound of pages turning. On the really tough days, I’ll curl up on the couch with a soft blanket, a mug of tea, and my favorite notebook—the one with the pink cover and a little gold heart on the front.
I start by writing down whatever is swirling in my mind, even if it’s messy or harsh. Seeing those words on the page helps me recognize them for what they are: old patterns, not facts. Sometimes I’ll write a letter to myself, as if I were comforting a friend. I remind myself, “You’re allowed to feel this way. You’re not alone. This moment will pass.”
On days when the spiral feels especially strong, I’ll set a timer for ten minutes and let myself write without stopping. I don’t censor or judge—I just let it all spill out. Afterward, I look back and notice how often my self-talk is shaped by fear or perfectionism. That awareness gives me a little space to respond differently.
Mindfulness isn’t about shutting down the anxiety or depression, but about creating enough space to respond with a little more kindness. Sometimes that means closing my journal and stepping outside, feeling the sun on my face and listening to the birds. Other times, it means reading back over my words and gently challenging the harshest thoughts. Would I ever say these things to a friend? Almost always, the answer is no. That’s my cue to soften my words, even if it feels unnatural at first.
Every time I choose compassion over criticism, it’s a small victory. Some days, that’s all I can manage—and that’s enough.
Learning to Offer Myself Encouragement
One thing I’ve always found easy is encouraging others. If a friend is struggling, I’m quick to offer a kind word or a gentle reminder that they’re doing their best. But for myself? That same compassion is so much harder to find.
A few weeks ago, one of my closest friends called me in tears after a tough day. She felt like she was failing at everything—her job, parenting, even keeping up with laundry. I listened, nodded, and poured every ounce of empathy I had into my words: “You are doing so much more than you give yourself credit for. It’s okay to have hard days. You are enough, even when you feel like you’re falling short.” I meant every word.
After we hung up, I sat quietly for a moment and realized how foreign those words felt when I tried to apply them to myself. If I had a rough day, I’d probably tell myself, “You should be doing better. Why can’t you get it together?” The difference was stark—and honestly, a little heartbreaking.
Since then, I’ve started a new practice: when I notice my self-talk turning harsh, I pause and ask, “What would I say to my friend right now?” Sometimes I even write it out in my journal, as if I were writing her a note. Other times, I’ll stand in front of the mirror and say the words out loud, even if it feels silly: “You are enough. You’re doing your best. It’s okay to rest.”
It’s not about pretending everything is perfect or ignoring my struggles. It’s about meeting myself with the same grace I offer the people I love. Every time I do, I feel the tension in my shoulders ease just a little. The kindness doesn’t erase the hard feelings, but it makes them easier to bear.
A Gentle Intention
This week, my gentle intention is to notice my self-talk and soften it whenever I can. If I catch myself being harsh, I’ll ask, “Would I say this to a friend?” How would it feel to offer myself even a fraction of the encouragement and patience I so freely give to others?
Reflection Prompt
What’s the tone of your inner voice lately? When do you notice it most? What’s one small way you could offer yourself more kindness this week?
With gentleness and hope,
Latosha