Borrowed Affirmations

This morning, somewhere between the hum of the treadmill and the sting of 5am discipline, I was struggling. The kind of struggling where every step feels negotiated, every breath feels earned, and the quiet makes the weight of your own thoughts feel louder. And in the middle of that slow mental battle to get moving, I found myself drifting to the same ritual I share with Odin every morning at drop-off. His little voice filled my mind: I am kind. I am confident. I am a good friend. I am a leader. I am thoughtful. I am strong. I am smart. Words spoken with the certainty only a child can carry—simple, pure, and unwavering.

So there I was, a grown woman needing the same affirmations I hand my five-year-old like little daily doses of courage. I used them as a lifeline. I borrowed from him just to push through, quietly telling myself, I am capable. I am present. I am resilient. I am loyal. At first, it felt a little ridiculous—like saying these things out should be unnecessary by now. But the truth is, it helped. It steadied me. It opened my eyes to something I’ve ignored for a long time.

It made me realize how easily I pour life into my kids and how rarely I offer myself the same kindness. I can describe my boys’ strengths in a heartbeat. I can build them up, gently correct them, pour affirmation into them without thinking twice. But if I were to describe myself? The first words that come are doubt, humor used like a shield, self-deprecation spoken as if it’s harmless. Somewhere along the way, we learn to minimize ourselves, to make small jokes about our insecurities, to lean into the softness of self-doubt rather than the strength of self-belief. It’s such a stark contrast from the way we speak to the little humans we love most.

And I can’t help but wonder—when does that shift happen? When do we stop viewing ourselves with the generosity we freely give our children? When do we start believing the negative thoughts over the truths we once naturally carried? And more importantly, how do we get back to the confident, bold, steady voice we offer our kids each morning?

Because my children are learning from everything I say AND everything I never say. If I want them to grow up believing they are strong, kind, capable, and resilient, then they need to see what those words look like lived out. They need to see their mom try, fail, try again, laugh, grow, rest, and rise. They need to see me speak about myself in a way that aligns with the values I’m trying to plant in them.

I want my kids to describe me as driven, resilient, present, encouraging, thoughtful, and kind. I want them to see a mom who doesn’t just tell them who they are but shows them who she is becoming. So maybe the way I show them is by getting up before dawn, even when it’s hard, because caring for myself is one of the ways I care for them. Maybe it’s in apologizing when I’m wrong, in choosing patience when it would be easier not to, in letting them see me laugh at my mistakes rather than tear myself apart. Maybe it’s in valuing my strengths instead of pretending they don’t exist.

And maybe, just maybe, the affirmations I repeat for Odin aren’t only for him. Maybe they’re also breadcrumbs back to myself—truths I once believed fully, before life and comparison and adulthood began to dull the edges. Maybe confidence isn’t something we lose. Maybe it’s something we forget. And mornings like this, sweaty and breathless on a treadmill, might be the exact moments we relearn how to speak to ourselves with the same tenderness we give our children.

So today, I’ll keep trying. I’ll keep saying the words out loud, even when they feel foreign. I’ll keep choosing the narrative I want my children to inherit. Because if I want them to carry these affirmations into adulthood—if I want them to talk to themselves with compassion, pride, and truth—then I have to start modeling that. NOW. For them. And for me. One step, one breath, one early morning run at a time.