There's this girl...
And she's my inner worst critic.
It’s deeply uncomfortable to be vulnerable. And it’s only human to wonder how our words will be received—if they’ll be misunderstood, judged, or simply ignored. This poem, written below, came to me one afternoon when I was feeling like a complete creative writing fraud, unable to finish my debut novel, and that old familiar voice—my inner worst critic—started speaking up again.
She was deafening in my teens and early twenties, constantly picking apart everything from how I looked to how I wrote. As I’ve gotten older, that voice has started to fade, softened by experience and self-awareness. But in a world saturated with social media, rising loneliness, and impossible standards around beauty and success, she still finds ways to make herself heard. And I know I’m not alone in that.
I hope that after you read this poem, you don’t feel as alone—or as closed off—inside your own head. I hope it reminds you that we all have that voice, but we’re also capable of answering back.
There’s This Girl.
She says I could use a little more makeup
to cover up the blemishes on my skin—
so gross.She’s brutally honest about what I’m wearing—
too tight,
too big,
too ugly,
too much.She thinks I never have the right shoes for any occasion—
too casual for the meeting,
too dressy for the store,
too loud,
too plain.She rolls her eyes when the house is a mess,
when the dishes aren’t done,
when things are out of place.
She calls me lazy when I pause—
says rest is just wasted time.She tells me to wear my hair up—
then says everyone can see my round face
and the foundation that doesn’t match my neck.She tells me to wear it down—
then says it’s too flat,
too boring,
too limp.She scrunches her nose at my arms in tank tops,
and says I shouldn’t wear a bikini—
it’s just too embarrassing,
what if people see that I don’t actually have a “bikini body”?She wonders if I’m even good at my job,
whispers that I might get fired,
that I don’t have the skills they’re really looking for.She laughs at the idea of me finishing my book—
says if I really wanted to, I would’ve by now.She scoffs when I post on social media,
saying no one would ever watch that video
or read that post.She’s always there.
Always watching.
Always speaking.But I’m louder now.
She’s left me alone more often—
the more I age,
the more wisdom I gather.I’ve learned her voice isn’t the truth.
And every time I write,
or wear the damn bikini,
or take up space—
her voice dims.
I love the poem. I also can relate.
It’s fascinating how we all have those voices in our heads, each speaking to us in its own constant rhythm and pace. When I really pay attention, I quickly notice it isn’t just one voice, it’s actually many, sometimes talking all at once. Through my IFS practice, I realized these aren’t just random thoughts. They’re different parts of me, each with its own concerns and intentions.
Some time ago, I decided to stop suppressing these parts and instead give them the space to express themselves. I found that many of these voices are protectors, trying their best to keep me safe, even if their methods aren’t always gentle or subtle. Now, when they speak, I listen. I let them express their worries, and then I reassure them: “It’s okay. You don’t have to worry. I’ve got this.”
By giving these parts permission to speak and acknowledging their intentions, I find a sense of harmony within myself. After all, every part just wants what’s best for me even if their delivery could use a little work.