Feeling beautiful.

Watching my daughter look at herself in the mirror this morning brought such a smile to my face. I had just pulled her hair up into a ponytail sitting on top of her head (as requested), and she went to the mirror to see how it looked. This huge grin appeared as she admired how she looked. She said, “I look beautiful,”and headed out the door.

I look beautiful.

When is the last time I looked at myself in the mirror and genuinely thought I look good without adding, except... to the end of it. It’s been awhile, I suppose. And why is that? For all you honest assholes out there you might list out what you think is un-beautiful about me, but I’m not paying any attention, you hear me?!

I look beautiful.

Hmmm, what does that mean? Is there a definition of beautiful and whose opinion truly counts? And moreover, why do I give a flying fuck what anyone else thinks?

I look beautiful.

Alright. I just said I look beautiful aloud in my writing space and I have to tell you, I didn’t exactly own it. No, I said it quietly because what if someone else hears me? I don’t know why this is so hard!? My six year old daughter can say it, own it and head off to school, whereas I feel wrong if I so much as whisper it to myself. If my daughter were to come to me and say, I don’t think I’m beautiful, I’d be so sad! I would listen to her all while wanting to hold her tight telling her you are beautiful! Then I’d list out the many reasons and hope that she sees herself as I see her. But I’m convinced that it’s not about being reassured of one’s beauty; no, it’s about FEELING beautiful. And that’s the issue. That’s the problem. What is the harm in FEELING beautiful?! Nothing. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing. Let’s let that shit go, people!

I’ll go first.

I feel beautiful because...

• my hair looks really good today and it feels soft.
• my belly is rounded and it’s getting stronger as I continue to practice yoga and Pilates.
• the skin around my eyes crinkle when I smile.
• my nose is defined and has this little flat spot on the bridge.
• my breasts bring nourishment to my son and he loves to drink milk from them.
• my legs are strong.
• my smile makes these little lines appear and it makes me feel like I have dimples.
• my arms are strong enough to hug my children tight.
• my knee has a little scar on it from when I fell as a child.

I feel beautiful because I am beautiful. I am not flawless, I could not make a career in modeling high fashion, I would not be photographed for a fitness feature in a magazine. I don’t fit into my pre-pregnancy wardrobe. My eyes look tired and I have dark under-eye circles. I have cellulite and I feel a chin hair that needs to be plucked. My toenails have peeling nail polish that needs to be removed, and I have flat feet. I am all of this and more and that’s okay. It’s better than OKAY. I’m real and this is MY BODY. If I don’t love it, who will? Can I eat better, move more and wear sunscreen faithfully? Yes. But why wait to love my body until then? It is what it is. No one has to tell me I’m beautiful or reassure me that my body is worthy. Because I feel beautiful. And that’s all that counts.