Radical Self-Acceptance: A Pride Month Reflection

Learning to accept and love yourself — rough edges, shortcomings, and all — is one of the hardest parts of the human journey. It’s messy, ongoing, and often lonely work. For me, Pride Month is an invitation into that deeper journey — a call to step into radical self-acceptance, self-love, and self-expression.

Self-acceptance means being vulnerable with those you’re in relationship with, beginning with yourself.

Self-love means embracing yourself unconditionally — every blemish, every regret, every part of you you wish looked different — and honoring your past selves for carrying you to this point.

Self-expression means noticing the masks we wear and taking the risk to show up just 1% more as your true self today.

This is not a destination I’ve arrived at — far from it. But it is a path I’ve chosen to walk, day by day, breath by breath. And I want to share with you three practices that help me take a step forward on this lifelong spiral of becoming.

Mindfulness Practice

It wasn’t until just a few years ago that I gave mindfulness an honest try. For a long time, I thought mindfulness was just another word for meditation — and I used to believe meditation was at worst dangerous, and at best a placebo.

This is one of those moments where the old saying rings true: don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. I had two big misconceptions that kept mindfulness out of reach for me.

First, I believed mindfulness only happened while sitting silently on a cushion with a clear, empty mind. Yes, seated meditation is one form of mindfulness — but it’s only one. Mindfulness can be part of anything you’re already doing. One of the first practices I often suggest is to slow down your morning routine. Smell the coffee grounds before brewing. Listen to the sizzle of eggs in the pan. Feel the fabric of your shirt as you pull it over your head.

This is the heart of mindfulness: being truly present in the now.

Second, I thought I was bad at meditation because I couldn’t stop thinking. My mind was filled with tasks, anxieties, and noise. And let me be honest — it still is. But now, I’m a little more present with my breath. I’m learning to be curious about how I feel about what’s on my mind, instead of trying to push it away.

There are teachers far more skilled than I am who speak of emptying the mind. That has never been something I could reliably access — especially when I approached it with that goal. The mindfulness I return to, personally and professionally, comes from the tradition of Zen Buddhism, particularly the Plum Village Sangha founded by Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh.

Mindfulness invites us into a sacred inner room — a still space where we meet every part of our being and say:

“I see you. I accept you. I love you. I want more of you to show up on the outside every day.”

This practice is a gateway into the psyche, into shadow, into the process Jung called individuation — becoming the whole Self.

Vulnerability

It’s no surprise this section took me the longest to write. I didn’t know I wasn’t really a vulnerable person — I’ve always been more comfortable holding space for other people’s vulnerability. I suppose that’s part of the journey of a middle child who went to Bible school to become a minister and ended up a therapist. But I digress.

The truth is, vulnerability is less of an idea and more of a feeling. For me, learning to welcome emotional vulnerability has been like learning to pull weeds in a garden.

No matter what kind of gardener you are — no matter how big your plot or how long you’ve been tending it — the weeds always come. You can ignore them, but the garden will choke. You can cover them, poison them, delegate them. But eventually, real growth asks us to get on our knees, dig into the soil, and touch what we’d rather avoid.

A rainy day is particularly ideal for this work.

This is the heart of shadow tending — not vanquishing the unwanted, but kneeling beside it, hands dirty, fully present. As Thich Nhat Hanh says, “The way out is in.”

Before I began cultivating introspection, I was often mimicking vulnerability without realizing it. Now, I’m learning to sit beside my discomfort — to befriend my fear, rather than pretend it isn’t there. Imposter syndrome still shows up, but I meet it now as a companion, not an intruder.

And the more I practice this inner honesty, the more I’m able to be vulnerable with those I love — especially my life partner. This doesn’t mean I no longer fear rejection. It means I’m learning how to speak of that fear with the very person who holds the power to reject me.

This is sacred work. This is the path of the open heart.

Admitting My Mistakes

As a partner, I see my shortcomings daily. And I don’t mean that in the cliché way of “my wife is always right.” I mean this sincerely: being in relationship means we will get it wrong. Often.

And that’s not just true in love — it’s true in life.

As a father, I’m even more aware of how often I mess up. I say the wrong thing, lose patience, or miss a cue from the one I love the most. And to be clear — this isn’t self-loathing. This is self-awareness, coupled with the willingness to reflect honestly and lovingly.

When we don’t admit our mistakes, it’s often not out of denial, but because we haven’t learned how to recognize them. Instead, they show up sideways — through dissociation, overindulgence, self-hatred, or avoidance.

To make mistakes is to be human. And yet sometimes when I do, it feels like I’m the only person on Earth who could be this foolish. That’s the voice of shame — the inner critic who masquerades as the Self but actually guards the Shadow.

In those moments, I turn to the absurd. I remember that we’re spinning on a rock at 1,000 miles per hour, orbiting a star at 67,000 miles per hour, in a galaxy that’s one among billions. And somehow, here I am — a complex, fragile being worrying that I’ve ruined everything over one mistake.

There’s comfort in cosmic insignificance. There’s a strange kind of grace in realizing I’m not all that extraordinary — thank God.

Of course, this doesn’t give me license to treat others poorly. But I believe kindness must begin within. And often, the first act of kindness is making peace with your mistakes.

This is how I feed the soul-soil — not with perfection, but with composted regret. This is how I return, again and again, to the journey of wholeness.

In Closing

The journey of self-acceptance isn’t linear. It spirals — like the ouroboros, the ancient symbol of the serpent eating its own tail — returning us to old wounds with new wisdom. Each cycle brings me closer not to some perfected version of myself, but to a more whole one.

Mindfulness. Vulnerability. Accountability. These are the practices I return to as I become who I already am beneath the masks.

This Pride Month, I’m choosing to show up — messy, flawed, unfinished — but whole.

And I hope you do, too.