How can I extend compassion to myself without it feeling self-indulgent?

This is the question Mirabai wrestled with her whole life. She gave everything—her devotion, her poetry, her willingness to be scandalous for love. But somewhere in that fierce generosity, she also had to ask: What do I owe myself? Self-compassion isn't indulgence. It's the foundation. A battery doesn't charge itself by pouring energy outward endlessly. Mirabai understood that her examination of her own heart—her grief, her longing, her doubts—wasn't self-centered. It was the only honest ground from which real devotion could flow. When you practice metta starting with yourself, you're not being selfish. You're being realistic. You're saying: "I matter too." This gives you the capacity to show up for others without resentment, without burning out, without the martyr's exhaustion. The examined heart—Mirabai's great gift—required that she didn't look away from her own pain. Neither should you. Tend to yourself with the same care you'd offer someone you love fiercely. Not because you're more important, but because you can't pour from an empty cup, and that's not poetry—it's just how humans work.