Taming the Inner Critic

By Eve M.

Looking in the mirror one afternoon, I notice dark circles under my pale face. I’m exhausted from a long week, overwhelmed by day-to-day life. My oversized t-shirt is wrinkled, and my sweats are stained with whatever I ate last. I didn’t realize how mean she was until I caught myself whispering insults to my own reflection.

“You look horrible. You can’t get anything right.”

My inner voice says things I would never say to anyone else. She’s stern and sharp—always ready to point out a flaw or remind me I’m not doing it right, not good enough. She’s a hard-ass. Quick to judge. Loud when I’m quiet. And relentless when I’m already down.

A few years ago, I started cognitive behavioral therapy. When I opened up to my therapist about the inner critic, she didn’t try to help me fix it or shut it down. Instead, she’d say:

“What does your body feel? Notice what’s happening in your body. Don’t try to change it—just notice.”

Sitting across from her, staring at the beige walls, something would surface that shifted my emotions. She’d gently pause me and ask me to check in with my body, to sit with the discomfort as long as I could. I’d rub my hands along the rough edges of the couch, trying to anchor myself. What I felt was always visceral: tight hips, a clenched jaw, my thumb flicking a hangnail.

At the height of that discomfort, in her calm, steady voice, she’d ask me to thank it—“it” being the protector, or loudmouth, or whatever name I had given it that day.

Seeing the voice as a protector—not a bully—was hard at first. But to understand her, I had to go back. Sometimes all the way to childhood. Back to where she first showed up to keep me safe.

My inner critic didn’t start out cruel. But she did start young. So did the belief that I wasn’t enough. That I wasn’t doing it right.

When I was in second grade, I chipped my two front teeth. My brother was chasing me around the living room, threatening to pour Kool-Aid on me. I tripped and fell into the wooden armrest of our couch, cracking both of my adult front teeth.

At first, I didn’t connect my broken teeth with shame or worth—until my classmates started calling me names.

“You look like a rabbit.”

They said cruel things to make me feel less than. We didn’t have the money to fix them right away, so I walked around like that for years—until we could finally afford to fix them in sixth grade.

It was around then that I started constantly searching for affirmation. I needed to know I was enough. That I was lovable.

But I hadn’t really paid attention to the voice in my head. Not until I started actively listening.

One morning, I had planned to exercise but didn’t feel like it. Guess who showed up?

“You’re so fat.”

“You’re never going to meet your goals.”

Or when I’m working on a project that feels endless:

“You’re never going to finish.”

“No one cares what you have to say.”

She’s a hard-ass, blunt woman—that inner voice. For a long time, I thought the only way to quiet her was to fight her. Shut her down. Argue back. Ignore her.

But something shifted when I began to wonder:

What if she wasn’t trying to hurt me? What if she was trying to protect me?

Why is she so mean? It turns out she’s been there all along—thinking she’s helping. Protecting me from rejection. From failure. From getting hurt.

I didn’t know what to do with that realization. Every time she spoke, my body would tense. I’d grit my teeth and hate her. I wanted her to go away.

But that didn’t work.

So, I tried something else. I thanked her. I told her I was safe now. I said things like:

“I’m okay.”

“Thank you for being here, but I don’t need you right now.”

“I know you’re protecting me, but I’m not that scared little girl anymore.”

I heard once in a workshop that the brain’s reticular activating system craves predictability. Even if that means waking up to shame and self-criticism, it prefers the familiar. That’s why change can feel so uncomfortable.

My inner voice is still there. But now, the biggest shift has been awareness—and consistency. I’m learning to respect that even though she can sound harsh, she’s trying to help. She’s trying to protect me from pain, rejection, the feeling of not being enough.

She’s not trying to sound like an ass. It just comes out that way.

Now, when I skip the gym and she shows up, I breathe. I name her. I remind her:

“I’m still worthy of rest.”

I’m trying new things as I learn more. Someone once suggested making a physical version of your inner critic—maybe out of Play-Doh, or however you picture her. Then place her in a jar. When you see the jar, you can say:

“I see you, but I don’t need you right now.”

I started writing down the things she says—those sharp, familiar lines:

“You’re not enough.”

“You’re fat.”

“You’re getting old.”

“Nobody loves you.”

I put them in a jar too. A symbol of release. A reminder that I don’t have to carry every cruel word she offers me.

It’s still a work in progress. But I’m learning to be gentler with her.

She still speaks up. But now, I don’t always believe her.

And that changes everything.

I haven’t silenced her. But I’ve stopped letting her be in charge.

Do you know your inner voice? What does she sound like—and what might she be trying to protect you from?

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