What I discovered about self-compassion when I wanted to quit

A few months ago, I entered a race.

I did it partly because I know myself. Winter can be a difficult time for me to stay motivated with exercise, and having something in the diary, along with a financial commitment, gave me the accountability to keep doing the things I might otherwise have talked myself out of.

It worked.

I arrived at spring with more fitness than I would otherwise have had.

And then I got injured.

It wasn't a major injury, but it took me out of running for three weeks at a point when I was starting to build towards race day. Suddenly, the question of whether I was ready to toe the line niggled to be heard.

And that's when things got interesting.

I had a voice in my head telling me:

You've already achieved what you set out to do. You kept your fitness going through winter. You've been injured. It's perfectly reasonable to withdraw.

It sounded like self-compassion.

And part of me believed it.

An old version of myself would never have entertained the idea. I used to be very good at sticking to the rules I'd set myself and giving myself very little wriggle-room. So being able to say, “I don't have to do this”, felt like evidence that I'd grown.

But something didn't quite sit right.

When I looked a little deeper, I could see that there were other things mixed in with the apparent self-compassion: comparison with other people, comparison with my younger self, worries about not being as fast or as fit as I once was, and a desire to avoid the uncomfortable feelings that come with putting yourself on the start line and not knowing how it will go.

Suddenly I wasn't so sure that withdrawing was the compassionate choice.

Because sometimes self-compassion isn't about making things easier.

Sometimes it's about accepting where you are, letting go of how you think you should be, and still doing something difficult because it matters to you.

For me, that means turning up.

Not because I need to prove anything.

Not because I need to perform like I used to.

And certainly not because I need to punish myself for getting injured.

I can be grateful for my body for getting me this far, accept that it needed a break, and still choose to take on the challenge.

I can let go of worries about my speed, my age, how I look and how I compare with other people.

I can turn up as I am.

And I think this is where the distinction between self-compassion and self-sabotage can become quite subtle.

Self-sabotage doesn't always sound like:

“Don't bother. You can't do it.”

Sometimes it sounds much kinder.

“You've done enough.”

“You don't need to push yourself.”

“It's okay to stay comfortable.”

And sometimes those things really are true. There are times when stopping, resting or changing direction is exactly what we need.

The challenge is becoming curious enough to notice what else might be sitting underneath the voice.

Am I genuinely looking after myself?

Or am I avoiding something uncomfortable?

Am I making a choice that aligns with my values?

Or am I trying to protect myself from comparison, disappointment or the possibility that I might not be as capable as I once was?

For me, race day will be a physical challenge. But I think the bigger measure of success will be what happens in my head.

There will probably be plenty of noise:

You're not good enough.

You're too old.

You haven't trained enough.

Everyone else is fitter than you.

This is too hard.

My version of progress won't be silencing all of those thoughts.

It will be noticing them without letting them decide what I do.

If you were watching from the sidelines, what I'd really like you to see is someone having a good time. Someone proud to be part of it. Someone doing the best she can with all that she has. Someone accepting where she is now and genuinely grateful for the body that has brought her here.

That, for me, would be progress.

And it's the kind of progress I'm passionate about supporting in my coaching.

Not simply getting people to do more, achieve more or try harder.

But developing the power of perspective. Becoming curious about the thoughts and stories that keep us in the rut we don't want to be in. Learning to recognise when the voice in our head is helping us, and when it might be quietly keeping us stuck.

I think self-compassion feels like a warm embrace.

Sabotage can sometimes feel hard, cold and prickly.

But the two aren't always as easy to tell apart as that.

Sometimes the most compassionate thing we can do is give ourselves permission to stop.

And sometimes it's to take a breath, accept where we are, and take the next difficult step anyway.

Less friction. Less self-judgement. And perhaps, unexpectedly, more possibility.

What might your voice of self-compassion be saying to you?