I have always been a nail biter. I mean, always. And most of that time, I’ve wanted to not be.
The first time I tried to stop biting my nails was when I was twelve years old. I bought that icky-tasting (and, now that I reflect on it, probably toxic) clear polish that’s supposed to remind you to take your hands out of your mouth, but the taste washed off too quickly.
As I grew older and started caring in increasing amounts about my appearance, there were other attempts, too, but none showed more commitment than the one I started shortly after I met my husband David.
For two whole months, I held firm. (Well, I might have bitten my nails occasionally–but only when they had already torn anyway.) At the end of that time I had about six normal-length nails and, totally discouraged, took my first trip to the manicurist to get some fake ones put on over them.
The fake nails didn’t work out. It hurt like crazy whenever they got pulled back for some reason, and they just weren’t my style. Not long after I ditched them, I started a journal of affirmations and was somehow thorough enough to include my desire for long nails in one of the first few entries. My affirmation was:
“I have long, strong, healthy fingernails.”
I broke a nail the next day and another one a few days after that, but I still wasn’t biting the others. And then, a small miracle occurred: My nails stopped breaking.
Somehow, they had gotten stronger.
Today my nails are all moderately long and of even length for the first time in memory.
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