I’m Pretty

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Last night when she was getting ready for dance class, Tegan looked in the mirror and said (as matter-of-factly as if she were commenting on the weather),

“I’m pretty.”

“You’re very pretty,” I told her, and the words came easily and confidently, not just as her mother but also as a human being who knows beauty when I see it.

Her statement was so lovely.  So simple, so accepting, as if there were never a question in her mind.  Of course I’m pretty.

And I couldn’t help but think…. when did I stop believing I was pretty?  Did I ever think I was pretty?  Did I think I was pretty when I was seven?  Did someone tell me I was pretty?

All I could remember were the negatives, like holes left from nails in a piece of driftwood.  The surface has long since healed, but the scars remain.

The comments that I was chubby, and (ironically) at other times in my life, too thin.

The reminders about calories, and fat grams, and exercising.

The girl at school who told me was my nose was too big.

The teasing that came when puberty hit, and along with it, horrible skin.

The friend who asked if it made me feel bad that I wasn’t as pretty as my sister.

The other friend who told me I was ugly when I didn’t pull my hair back.

The abusive boyfriend who told me my hair was too long and too poufy, my thighs were too big, and my boobs were too small.  And seriously, when was I going to cut my %&$@! hair?

The coworker who complained that I was stupid (which has nothing to do with physical appearance, but is somehow always there, along with the others)

When did I decide to accept this?  When did I start letting any of it define me?  All I knew was that at some point along the way, it shaped my truth.  It became my internal dialogue.  Did I ever make the conscious choice to CHOOSE to believe it?  Or was I powerless to stop it?   I didn’t know anymore.

“I’m pretty.”

And here is my daughter.  This confident, innocent, beautiful child, who I would do anything to protect.  I am careful – so careful!! – not to verbalize my issues in front of her.  No complaining. No degrading.  No self-deprecation.   When people have told me she looks like me I’ve completely resisted the urge to respond, “Are you kidding? She looks nothing like me.  Look at her, she’s gorgeous!”  And when she looks at me, in her honesty and her love and all her seven-year wisdom and says, “You’re so pretty Mommy”, I smile, and I say thank you. And in that moment… I feel pretty.

But it’s not enough, is it?  To pretend and smile and say the right things and grab the fleeting moments when they come?

I want what she has.  That thing I lost, so long ago.

It’s a lesson she’s teaching me, and will continue to teach me until I get it right.  Not just to feel comfortable in my skin, but to feel fabulous in my skin.  To OWN my skin.  To be able to look back at all those negative voices and say,

“YOU DON’T DEFINE ME.”

I’m working on it.  And if the lessons I’ve already learned, both from Tegan and the boys, are any indication, I’ll get there.  I’ll be able to join her in that mirror, and see a face that’s strong and confident and kind and smart and be able to say,

“I’m pretty”, and mean it.

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