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\u201cWith self-compassion, we extend to ourselves the same kindness and care that we would offer to a dear friend.\u201d ~Kristin Neff<\/strong><\/p>\n For an extended period, I held onto a question that I seldom voiced aloud. It wasn\u2019t overly dramatic. It wasn\u2019t cruel in nature. It felt rational\u2014even responsible.<\/p>\n What\u2019s wrong with me?<\/p>\n This inquiry arose whenever I felt immobilized. When my motivation waned. When I struggled to accomplish tasks I believed should come easily to me. It surfaced quietly in moments of feeling overwhelmed, in the pause before self-criticism took hold.<\/p>\n I asked it earnestly. I was convinced it was the right starting point.<\/p>\n If something in my life felt off, then surely the answer resided within me. A mindset issue. A lack of discipline. An unresolved flaw. I presumed that once I identified it, everything else would align perfectly.<\/p>\n So I introspected with determination.<\/p>\n I consumed books. I closely monitored my thoughts. I aimed to become more self-aware, more evolved, more competent. I thought that growth required perpetual self-analysis\u2014and that posing tough questions indicated maturity.<\/p>\n However, over time, something about that inquiry started to feel wrong.<\/p>\n Each time I asked what was wrong with me<\/a>, I found no clarity. Instead, I felt more constrained.<\/p>\n My chest tightened. My shoulders lifted. My breathing became shallow without my awareness. My mind raced ahead, seeking a quick explanation, as if hurrying could offer relief.<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t realize it then, but my body reacted as though it were being interrogated.<\/p>\n The question held an unexamined assumption: that something was<\/em> fundamentally wrong, and it was my duty to discover and rectify it.<\/strong><\/p>\n