What does it mean to abandon the self? It sounds abstract, a psychological trick of the mind, something removed from daily live and irrelevant to me and my daily grind, hopes and aspirations? Or maybe, it's at the core of every nagging sorrow, each murmur of the heart, or squeeze of the soul that's cast aside as we surf the net, scroll our social media or muse over what to eat next. In a world of distractions, that seeks to lure our attention to anything but ourselves, taking time out to sit with this idea and perhaps explore if I've abandoned myself, I can begin to discover how I can rescue me when I feel sad or lost?

Abandoning myself-how is that even possible?

I wake up, I pee, check my phone, reach for the coffee. Whatever the routine, it seems an odd concept to abandon the self. Out of reach even, maybe too remote to be of much value. But valuable it is, and so in a bid to ground the ethereal into the practical here are some examples of what abandoning ourselves in practise might look like. You could be a parent, a partner, a packed professional. Each day you make a little promise to yourself, that today you will open that book you've been eyeing, clear a little space to do some meditating, or perhaps make time to go for a brief walk, alone in a park you've seen and always quite hoped to explore. And then the phone rings, the email lands or the child cries and that promise to the self is parked, shelved, put on pause. Again. Perhaps you're a therapist, or simply an able listener to whom others turn, but today you're feeling raw, vulnerable, little if any bandwidth, aching for a hug and wanting to close the door or reach out to ask to be heard. Instead, you push that feeling deep down below the surface, squashed, suppressed, press a smile onto a face dim with lowness, and ignore the pleas from you to be heard in the same way you are hearing others.

In and of themselves, these examples may sound like the common day to day scarifices we make in order to function in a busy world. Perhaps you maybe cocking your head thinking, 'I like to put others first, it's my choice because I'm ...' insert whatever feels relevant to you. But I'd like to gently nip at those rationalisations and invite you to look again. Deprioritising the self is walking away from you in your moment of need. It's turning your back on yourself, saying no and saying yes to something else. In and of itself this small betrayal may seem inconsequential, necessary even for the very fabric of life. But the peril lies in this becoming a default setting in the face of all or any of your own moments of need. A betrayal of the self is a betrayal nonetheless, death by a thousand cuts.

Why does this matter now? In a pandemic?

Surely now more than ever, I ought to be available for others? Ought to be putting myself second in the face of the anguish of those more in need than me? Recovering yourself does not equate to ignoring others, nor indulging in narcissism. It's a balance, or perhaps a rebalancing. It's the recognition that you, just as any other is deserving of your compassion.Walking away from ourselves is a dangerous pattern, perhaps one witnessed when we were younger by those bigger than us, in pain and unable to cope. So we modelled that kind of desertion, thinking it was how love worked. But we are not defined by the patterns of the past and turning back towards ourselves does not equate to a turning away from others. It means that if I recognise my value, worth, need and deservability, I am more able to see that in you. If I can offer myself compassion, recognise the anguish in my moment, then I am more able to see and support you in the pain of yours.

A pandemic is experienced indiviudally and collectively. If we are equipped and able to support ourselves through it, we can become a more available stalwart for those around us.

Why do I do this? How can I change?

Asking why is a painful question, full of judgement. Why do we do anything? Because it seemed a useful, helpful even, protective strategy at the time, but now we know better and we can make a different choise. Invariably it stems from childhood, when parents who were doing the best they could, simply continued the experience of parenting they'd received, for better or worse. No judgement there, we are all doing the best we can. We are not children any more, but there is an aspect of ourself that is; that is that little person who likes ice cream but always gets told no, who likes splashing in puddles but is frowned at for being silly, who loves drawing but was always scolded for wasting time. If those were messages then, they don't have to be the messages now. Now is a time to remold, to return and to recalibrate. Return to the little self, and say, 'Ok, today some ice cream', 'Today we colour', 'Today we play in the rain.' Yes, you maybe 52 with a pension and barely any savings, or a parent with not a moment to spare and mouths to feed, but you can find a minute in amongst the chaos to turn back to you and say yes, for you I always have a minute. Because if you don't, if you always say no, then life slowly fades, loses it's colour and a little part of you will forever wonder, where has the joy gone?

It's the small things

Change isn't seismic. It can be, but true trajectory change, is made with a sequence of small, almost imperceptible adjustments. Turning back to you is the same. That small aspect of ourself maybe oddly reluctant to listen to our efforts to engage. We may snort at attempts to be more considerate to our own private child-like desires, considering them contrived. What I would say to that is persist. You are worth the time, the commitment, the attention and is it any surpise that the little inner you is perhaps a bit sceptical? After all you've said no for years and now it's yes? It can almost feel too good to be true. But true it is, and prove it so. Gently, gently it goes. I have a little request of my coaching clients when we explore this concept. All it requires is a small gesture of appreciation to themselves in recognition for a job well done. It doesn't have to be big, flashy or expensive. It could be a coffee from their favourite cafe, a walk along the river for which there has been no time, or a long bath. I do this exercise for slightly selfish reasons-I am so moved by what people will do for themselves when it's made mandatory. The ones I've remembered include a client driving past his favourite football ground on the commute home, another a magazine, but my most treasured of all, was an evening text from a client who'd always been so hard on himself. 'Tonight Louisa, I bought myself a finger of fudge. It was delicious.'

I've never forgotten that. Is it time for your finger of fudge?