The girl in the mirror blinks twice. She raises her eyebrows, turns her head. She leans in close like Jason Mraz, draws a new face, and laughs. She’s watching herself through the eyes of everyone else, examining her profile and the way her eyes scrunch when she smiles. She’s asking “What do I look like when I’m thinking?” and “Who’s looking when I’m laughing?” She’s asking if she’s pretty. She’s asking if she’s cute.
I can’t answer her questions. Our self-concepts will always be clouded by some kind of judgement. No matter how long I spend staring at her, and no matter how hard she stares back, I’m not sure if I’ll ever know what I really look like. What does the guy who passes me in the grocery store see, or the worker at the checkout as I swipe my debit card? There are people who are seeing my face for the very first time - people who haven’t spent hours in the bathroom analyzing my face like I have, who don’t know what I looked like when I was 12 and have no way to see how much I’ve changed and grown and lived in this body.
Then the girl in the mirror is back at it again, this time pinching the fat on her stomach. She sucks in, but the fat stays, stubborn just like her. I’m watching the girl, and she’s watching me. The girl lets her hands fall to her sides, lets the fat on her stomach lie as it would without sucking anything in, and stares. Then her hands move to her thighs, and they pinch the fat the same way they just pinched her stomach. In her eyes, there’s too much. She is too much and not enough.
When was the first time she thought she wasn’t pretty enough? Why does she insist on overanalyzing her own body? A few memories run through my mind. Teenage years, all comparing and contrasting; she looks like that, why do I look like this, how do I look like her? Women’s bodies all over Instagram, just flat stomachs and long legs and perfection. And a cute boy who pinches the fat on my side, smiles at me, and says, “You know, you’d be sexier if you lost some weight.”
The girl in the mirror looks like she might cry. She’s remembering all the times she’s felt too big in her own body or felt ugly beside a pretty friend. Every time a pair of pants couldn’t fit over her thighs in a dressing room, or a shirt couldn’t button closed all the way. All the off-guard pictures of her where her double chin is in full view, or smiles from the side where you can clearly see her overbite.
I want to hug her, but she’s me.
I look into her eyes - my eyes.
“You’re already good enough how you are,” I say, and I can’t tell if it’s me or her I’m trying to convince.
I look at myself in the mirror, trying to see clearly. Shifting my gaze from comparison to appreciation. From “Why don’t I look like her?” to “I am so glad to look like me.” I look at myself in the mirror and try to see what my mother sees, what my close friends see, what the strangers who give me random compliments see. I try to see myself the way I see my mother, my close friends, and the strangers I give compliments. They see me with love, and I see them with love. Where does that love go when I see myself?
The girl in the mirror doesn’t have tears in her eyes anymore. Instead, a small smile sits on her lips. The kind of smile that is only small for a moment, before brightening into a bigger one. She’s thinking, “Who is that beautiful girl staring back at me? Why was she so sad a moment ago? I hope she knows she’s beautiful. I hope she knows I love her.”
I’m watching her smile. I can’t help but smile with her. I hope she knows she’s beautiful. I hope she knows I love her.
The girl in the mirror looks at me with love in her eyes. I do my best to look at her the same.