“I sat in front of a mirror and admired how my hair managed to air dry perfectly and I wondered if my daughter’s hair would be the same color as mine. I stared into my own eyes until I stopped seeing myself, but just a person needing an answer—staring at me as if they had just asked a question I must have not heard. I thought about beauty and realized how terrified I am of losing what I have of it—the relative, ever-changing definition of it, and then I was disgusted with myself as I realized how much I actually dread the day when men stop taking a second glance at me. My insecurities dread the day that my heart has to work over-time for anyone to call me beautiful—when I don’t have my youth holding the weight my soul should have always carried. I sat in front of that mirror and wondered how people actually see me. What do they notice? I sat in front of the mirror and wanted to confess the memories that plague me. I wanted to explain the ideas that are blooming in my mind. I wanted to share the insecurities that led me to the mirror in the first place. I felt trapped behind my appearance. I wanted to know if it was possible to forget whether or not prettiness is a factor to see beyond the barrier. And then I realized that adoring your reflection is not the only form of vanity. Resenting your reflection is just as vain. And in a moment of clarity, I felt a calm come over me as I looked at myself once more and saw my grandfather’s cheekbones, my mother’s eyes, my father’s skin tone, and my grandmother’s mouth. I took a deep breath of acceptance and felt a collage of lives I haven’t lived. I blinked a few times, got up from my seat, walked away from the mirror, and wondered how I’ll ever come to terms with who I am and who I want to be.”

LB | From Her, To Her


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