how about a hug instead?

a self hug bench in Ireland circa 2019

I once dated a guy in high school who refused to be close to me in public.

We would go for joy rides in his beat up red Toyota truck down the people-less streets of our small town. He loved to play games while he was driving: often covering my eyes with his hands and having me guess the speed limit on the road we were on. A game to see how well my memory worked. Sometimes, I would do it back, a thrill of danger coursing through my veins. He would insist on driving down the middle of the road and kissing me as much as he could until his truck started to veer one way or the other. It was scary, but it was scary together. We were gross: swapping ice cold baja blast flavored spit between our mouths as we made out. We were messy: often getting caught by our neighbors when we kissed in the woods for too long. Our tongues meshed together so much that we couldn’t tell who’s breath belonged to who. And I mostly liked him because it seemed like he really liked me.

When he first refused to hold my hand in the grocery store, I thought my world was over. Suddenly, he didn’t like me anymore. I remember the urgency in his eyes, the shame in his voice, the disgust in his body.

My mind began to race with all the reasons why someone wouldn’t want to be close to me: I smelled. I was ugly. I was embarrassing to be with—my legs too gangly and my boobs too small. I was bad at holding hands. I had hurt his feelings. I was wrong.

Everything about me was wrong. There had to have been something wrong with me to make his demeanor change so quickly. It wasn’t him, it was me. And I willingly accepted his punishment.

I can remember every good hug I have ever had. Every moment of physical closeness that has ever brought me peace. And I have never, ever, wanted that closeness to end.

And because I can remember all of the deep hugs, passionate kisses, and loving eyes that met mine, I can also remember every time someone has faked their closeness because they thought that is what I wanted. Or even worse, denied me closeness at all.

I have been ravenous for closeness my entire life. To feel understood in a way that is so intimate and true that words are incapable of describing the way it feels.

I have had so much meaningless sex because I have known I could not get the emotional connection I truly desired from the person I thought I wanted it from.

I have caused myself so much harm: dating people who have seen me as another distraction. Convincing myself that I loved them and that they loved me because they know how my body looks naked. I have believed that my physical worth is completely determined by someone’s desire to be close to me.

I have not had the strength, the confidence, the belief in myself to realize that the person I have been wanting to be close to lives deep within myself.

I read somewhere once that you need a minimum of 8 hugs a day for maintenance and 12 hugs a day for growth.

What would happen, I wonder, if I simply hugged myself?

If I stopped relying on other people to make me feel special or wanted or needed?

How much more fulfilling would my life be if I became my own favorite person to be around?

How much more fulfilling would my relationships be if I stopped waiting for them to show me how to pick up my pieces?

How much more of myself could I share with the world—without the fear of abandonment dancing in my bones—knowing that I will never, ever, abandon myself?

That at the end of the day, I am reminded that no matter what, I will always be home.

How much freer would I be?

This toxic advice online that convinces us that we cannot love others if we cannot love ourselves first, is so fucking false. I am the perfect example of loving someone else when I do not entirely love myself. I am the perfect example of relying on other’s to hold me until I can hold myself. I am a good partner, a good friend, a loyal supporter, and an excellent hugger. But I still get frustrated with myself when I feel depressed. I still feel shame when I cry. I curse my body for feeling pain. I ignore to truly see myself for who I am and choose to hate the parts that feel ugly. And that, is not love.

My progress has been slow. I witness my cycles as they become harmful or painful. I will sit and talk for hours, trying to figure out how to meet my partner with understanding and safety. We will succeed, then fail, then try again.

It is normal to feel broken, and to want someone to help you in your brokenness. To want someone to witness your beauty as you rebuild your life and rewrite the beliefs you’ve carried that have caused you more harm than good. To want someone to listen to you complain about the shit you’ve gone through and not try to fix it. And also, to want them to fix it entirely.

To want someone to know you madly.

To want someone to hold you closely.

To want someone to see you truly.

Maybe the word, “love,” is wrong. Maybe you don’t know how to love yourself yet. Maybe you were never taught how. Maybe you need someone to show you what that looks like while you figure it out for yourself. Maybe you need to turn to friends, or compliments from strangers, or words in self help books to fill the gaps. Maybe loving yourself first feels too hard or too scary or too confusing. And that is perfectly okay.

Try starting with a hug instead.

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