You’re not broken. You’re programmed.
You’re Not Broken. You’re Programmed.
“What you resist persists.”
When I used to hear that phrase, I thought it referred to avoiding uncomfortable emotions—like grief, anger, disappointment. The “bad” stuff. The stuff that makes your chest tighten or your stomach clench. The feelings we shove down, hoping to deal with them later.
Or maybe, I thought, it’s about avoiding a difficult decision—something we delay because we’re scared to get it wrong.
But recently, I realized there’s more to it than that.
What we resist isn’t just pain.
It’s desire.
The kind we didn’t know how to name as children. The kind we buried so deep we forgot it was ever there.
We all carry tension. Trauma. Emotional leftovers from years of being misunderstood, criticized, or neglected. We all have our “stuff.” But what makes that pain so hard to face? Why does it feel so unbearable to just sit and feel?
Because for many of us, feeling pain became unsafe a long time ago.
Somewhere in childhood, we received the message that certain emotions made us “bad.” That there was something wrong with us for feeling sad, angry, needy, too sensitive, too much. That we weren’t meeting someone else’s expectations—and therefore didn’t deserve love in that moment.
And so, we began to internalize that message:
“I am not enough as I am.”
That message becomes a voice in our heads that follows us into adulthood. It points out every flaw, every mistake. It compares us to others. It tells us we’re not doing enough, not succeeding fast enough, not attractive or disciplined or worthy enough.
Women are taught their worth lies in how they look.
Men are taught their value lies in how they provide.
All of us are taught: earn love through performance.
If a boy’s mother was critical, he may spend his whole life trying to feel “good enough” in the eyes of others—never realizing he’s searching for something that was never modeled for him. If a girl’s body was policed, she may learn to measure her value through beauty, control, or constant self-surveillance.
And if a child was neglected, they may carry the wound of invisibility:
“I don’t matter.”
No one escapes childhood without receiving messages about who they needed to be in order to be loved. And those messages become our inner narrative—until we stop and question them.
Recently, I had a realization:
What I was resisting wasn’t just the pain of a hard feeling…
I desired to feel worthy, even in the middle of that feeling.
To be accepted by myself, no matter what was going on inside me.
And I didn’t know how to give that to myself, because no one ever taught me how.
I don’t know anyone who had unconditional self-acceptance modeled for them. We’ve all been trying to create wholeness with fractured blueprints.
So, we resist not just the hard emotions, but the parts of ourselves that need love the most.
Here’s what I’ve come to believe:
The resistance we feel is a longing—for love, for worthiness, for self-acceptance—that we’ve been too afraid to fully name.
Because if we name it, we might realize just how long we’ve gone without it.
We might feel the ache of what was missing.
And that ache is a wound we’ve spent our whole lives trying not to feel.
But naming it is the beginning of healing.
Because beneath every harsh inner voice is a child who only ever wanted to feel safe, seen, and loved exactly as they are.
From this moment forward, this is how I want to love—both myself and others:
With unconditional acceptance.
With presence, not performance.
With grace, not criticism.
And so, I invite you to ask yourself: Can I accept myself fully in this moment, just as I am?
Without trying to fix, perform, or change?
Pause.
Observe your thoughts.
Notice what comes up.
Because they’ll show you what you’ve been taught to believe.
And they’ll show you what you’re ready to unlearn.
It isn’t your fault that self-acceptance feels unfamiliar.
But it is possible to practice it now—with intention, with compassion, and with presence.
And that practice might be the most healing thing you ever do.