Grandma’s Love Advice

My grandmother used to say, “Before you can love anybody else, you have to love the woman in the mirror.”

She would sit in the window, staring out as if the world outside held answers she hadn’t yet found. Most afternoons, she’d sip her coffee and watch the young couple who sat on the stoop fighting for love and understanding . They argued often — sharp words slicing the air between them — and she’d shake her head as though their voices hit too close to home.

That summer, I visited her every Thursday before she passed away. I cleaned her apartment, but more than that, I collected pieces of her wisdom — lessons that only now, years later, feel like seeds finally pushing through the dirt.

Before I got to scrubbing and dusting, she’d always sit me down at the table first. There’d be a slice of her famous butter pound cake, a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting at the edges, and a side of good conversation. The sounds of the dripping faucet, the Ten Ten Wins theme music, and Big Daddy Kane playing faintly from the radio filled the room like a rhythm only she and I understood.

“What is love, Grandma?” I asked her one day.

She took a long sip from her favorite pink mug, set it down carefully, and then looked at me with eyes that had seen too much.

“Pamela,” she said, “I could tell you it’s sweet and soft and makes you float on air. But that would be bullshit.”

I blinked, startled by her bluntness.

“What is love?” she continued. “God. After that? It’s acceptance — every bit of you. Because people? They’ll always be quick to remind you of your worst parts.

“Love can make you or break you. And don’t forget this — the same person who once loved your dirty drawers can turn around and act like they can’t stand the sight of you.”

She paused, letting the words sink in.

“So don’t bank on someone else’s love. That’s why you’ve got to fill your own cup.” first — with heaps of love and a whole lot of like for yourself.”

At sixteen, I was naïve. I thought love was something you got from other people — not something you had to find in yourself first. In my adulthood I was just plum stupid banking my self worth on people.

“But I mean,” I pressed, “like when a girl likes a boy — and vice versa.”

She raised an eyebrow, leaned back in her chair, and took another sip.

“Pamela,” she said, lowering the mug and pointing her finger at me, “that was your mama problem waiting on someone to love her. Always seeking something that only God could give. She thought getting pregnant by that boy would be the answer. Babies and sex don’t make a man stay in love with you.”

Her words settled in my chest like a stone — heavy and unmoving. She leaned closer, her voice softer but no less certain.

“Your mother carried you with a heavy heart. She passed it on to you — her fears, her insecurities. I see it all over you. We women pass down generational pain and make our babies the carriers of it. Some of us women get hurt once and then deny ourselves kindness, joy, and happiness. Punish ourselves because of another person’s choices not to love us. I promise you the best remedy is to a broken heart is to heal it.”

I hesitated before asking, “Did you? Deny yourself, I mean?”

She sucked her teeth and shook her head.

“Chile, more than you’ll ever know. It left scars — anger that hardened my heart. It didn’t break me, but the scars… they stayed.” She paused, her fingers brushing the rim of her mug. “That’s why I’m telling you — the greatest love you’ll ever know comes from God. After that? Yourself.”

I swallowed hard, trying to hold onto her words. “Do you love yourself now?”

She looked at me then — really looked at me — and pushed her cup aside.

“No,” she said finally. “Cancer, heartbreak, and life made me bitter. Too many wounds, too many scars. What I wish I’d known is that we’re God’s creations. And because of that, we should love every ounce of ourselves. I’m trying to help you not be like me and your mama. To be like them young folks arguing on the stoop. It ruins joy.It steals your smile.”

Slowly, she reached up and removed her wig. It was the first time I saw her bald head.

“Grandma…” My voice broke. “You’re beautiful.”

She let out a short laugh and shook her head.

“You don’t have to flatter me, baby. I’m dying. Flattery won’t change that or lengthen my life. What you can do for me is this — find victory in pain. Learn to murder the two battles you will face called the critics — yourself and the most judgemental motherfuckers close to you. That will be your fight everyday of your life because you wear your heart on your sleeve. Wors hurt you.”

I bit my lip. “Grandma, I’m not flattering you. You are beautiful. I can’t help it I cry when people hurt my feelings.”

She softened then, just a little, but her voice stayed steady.

“Nah, and you have to toughen up or these cruel people. in the world will break you. she said. “I just dress good to hide the ugly — the aches and pains. Surround yourself with people who accept you, yes. But none of it will matter until you accept yourself. Until you make peace with being imperfect — and some days, broken you look for validation from the world.”

Now, at 50, I realize I didn’t take her advice — not the way I should have. I wish I’d held on tighter to those golden words, let them root themselves deep inside me.

She was right. People will remind you of your imperfections — your flaws and all the ways you’ll never be good enough. And then, before you know it, you’ll start to believe them.

But the worst critic? The one inside your own head. That voice doesn’t just echo what others say — it magnifies it.

For years, I let that voice win. I let it drown out every ounce of good in me, every small victory, every hard-earned step forward. I lived in the shadows of not-enough, convincing myself that love — real love — had to come from somewhere outside of me.

But I hear her voice now.

Clear as the sound of that dripping faucet, clear as the faint hum of Big Daddy Kane on the radio.

Fill your own cup first with love, joy, and happiness.

I hear it when I’m standing in the mirror, looking at the lines on my face, the stretch marks on my skin, the rolls on my stomach, the fullness of my thighs, and the tiredness in my eyes. And sometimes, I say it out loud.

Because I’m still learning — learning to love the woman in the mirror, to forgive her, to see her not as broken but as whole. To realize I was God’s creation of imperfections, but also his other creation of what makes me shine as a woman.

And when that voice creeps back in, whispering that I’m not enough, I remind it — I come from women who survived scars.

I come from a grandmother. who carried burdens such as cancer, divorce and heartbreaks never spoken about and still fed me wisdom, to bake pound cakes, to sit in windows and search for answers to this crazy world.

And I come from a grandmother who, even when she. couldn’t love themselves completely, still tried to teach their granddaughter how.

So today, I stand here, fifty years old, and I make myself a promise.

I will keep planting the seeds she gave me and pass down the wisdom she gave to me.

I will keep pushing through the dirt of doubt and my inner critic

And no matter how long it takes, I will bloom into finally loving myself authentically.