The bathroom sink (and the grace we forget to give ourselves)
My sister sent me a message recently that stopped me in my tracks:
“I always think I’m doing my best… at least trying to be a good person. And then I clean out underneath my bathroom sink.”
If you’re a woman, you probably felt that in your soul too.
Because somehow, tucked between half-empty shampoo bottles, expired sunscreen, and products we swore would change our lives, is a quiet accusation:
If I were better, my life would look more together than this.
And before we even realize it, we’ve turned worthiness into a checklist:
If I worked out consistently, I’d be a better person.
If my cabinets were organized, I’d feel more peaceful.
If my kids behaved better, I’d be doing motherhood right.
None of us would say these things out loud to someone we love.
But we say them to ourselves constantly and self-criticism becomes a habit.
Here’s the truth we rarely pause to examine:
Chronic self-criticism isn’t humility. It’s a form of self-harm.
Those quiet, cutting thoughts…I should be better, I should be further along, I shouldn’t be like this…. are what I’ve come to think of as micro-aggressions toward ourselves. Small, repeated moments of unkindness that erode our joy, our peace, and eventually our capacity to love others well.
Scripture speaks directly to this, even if we often overlook it:
“Love your neighbor as yourself.” (Mark 12:31)
That verse assumes something we don’t always practice, that we treat ourselves with the same basic compassion, patience, and grace we readily extend to others.
Now, I’m not a Buddhist, but I’m not afraid to recognize wisdom when I see it.
There’s a Buddhist practice called maitri, which means loving-kindness. It’s often illustrated with the image of a mother bird caring for her baby bird. Feeding it, protecting it, nurturing it patiently until it’s strong enough to care for itself.
The baby bird is awkward. Featherless. A little ridiculous.
And still - fully loved.
The mother bird doesn’t withhold care until the chick “gets it together.” She doesn’t shame it for being needy. She doesn’t expect independence before nourishment.
And here’s the part that resonates deeply with me: None of us are fully the mother bird or fully the baby bird.
We are always a bit of both.
We are caregivers and caretakers - of children, spouses, friends, aging parents.
And we are also unfinished, fragile, sometimes overwhelmed humans who need gentleness too.
That image mirrors Scripture more closely than we might think:
“As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you.” (Isaiah 66:13)
God doesn’t love us after we become strong.
He loves us into strength.
Grace Doesn’t Wait for Improvement
One of the quiet lies many Christian women carry is this: I’ll be more at peace once I fix myself.
But the Gospel tells a different story:
“But God demonstrates His own love for us in this: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8)
Not once we were organized.
Not once we were disciplined.
Not once we had it all figured out.
Grace didn’t wait for improvement.
Grace came first.
When we tell ourselves, “If I went to the gym, I’d be a better person,” or “If my house were in order, I’d be happier,” we are subtly postponing love, acting as if affection, peace, and worth must be earned.
But love that has to be earned is not love. And growth rooted in shame rarely lasts.
Loving-Kindness Is Not Lowering the Bar
Practicing loving-kindness toward ourselves doesn’t mean we stop growing.
It means we stop withholding love until growth happens. You can want better habits and still speak to yourself gently. You can desire order and refuse to shame yourself for chaos. You can be working on yourself and be worthy of love right now.
Scripture calls this posture something very familiar:
“Love is patient. Love is kind.” (1 Corinthians 13:4)
That verse doesn’t come with an asterisk that says “except toward yourself.”
Maybe the most freeing truth is this:
You can be a little crazy and still deeply loved.
A little messy and still holy.
A little behind and still exactly where God can meet you.
Like the baby bird, awkward, unfeathered, dependent - you are not disqualified by your fragility.
And like the mother bird, you are invited to extend to yourself the same compassion you so freely offer everyone else.
So the next time you open the cabinet under your sink and feel that familiar wave of judgment rise up, try this instead:
I am growing. I am human. I am loved.
Grace was never meant to be something we receive once and then deny ourselves daily. And maybe loving ourselves with kindness isn’t self-indulgence at all. Maybe it’s faithful obedience to the God who never once asked us to earn His love.