I am my own harshest critic, often times unfairly and unnecessarily. 

Recently I read a quote asking why we treat other people better than we treat ourselves. Shouldn’t we look out for ourselves first? 

Why would I give someone the shirt off my back, do things that put me at tremendous inconvenience, make me sad or angry, but can barely find time to love myself? 

In a few minutes I leave to march in a parade. Music is my first love. I will pick up a pair of sticks and play any time, anywhere, anything possible. It’s just in me. For the 10 or 15 minutes that we march down the street nothing else exists. 

I feel the music in me. As the music comes in, my hands move and things come out. It’s beyond notes and rhythms. It’s not time signatures or key changes. 

It’s about energy, about flow, about being one with something. It’s as though time stands still. All my problems are gone, all my anxiety stops, the thoughts that race through my head from sun up until sun down are still. 

And yet I will beat myself up for not marching perfectly straight, or missing a beat, or not staying perfectly in line. 

I have so much love that I give to others. I would do anything for anyone if they ask, and sometimes if they don’t. 

Why don’t I show myself the same compassion? Until I can unlock that question, I will never be all that I am meant to be.