I used to dream of flawlessness.
An unmarred expanse of skin.
Flat, unblemished perfection.

Like the skinny, pale peers marking my adolescence
all beauty
and boys chasing the hems of their skirts.

Mirrors were my enemy.
For months on end, I’d avoid them
unwilling to perceive myself –
the unquantifiable failures of an imperfect body.

When I did get trapped by my reflection there was nothing but disdain.
Minutes spent poking at fat and bemoaning the many blemishes sprouting from my face.

Ugly.
All I saw was ugly
for years.

I don’t know when it changed –
slowly or all at once.
But one day I looked in my mirror and saw something different.
A budding of appreciation
for every fold
all the hidden parts of my body:
curves creating shadow
flaws fashioning fervency.
A different kind of beauty
worth admiring.

I always believed learning to love myself would be an impossibility.
Unattainable in the body I have with a mind that often acts more like a battlefield.
I didn’t know it was a thousand little things, moments absent of self-hatred where I perceive myself outside the many negative narratives that have haunted.

The simplicity of a fact without judgment.
I am a body existing despite every doubt
every insecurity
every voice both internal and external telling me I do not belong.

And that is a powerful act of love.