When I was twelve years old, I decided that I hated myself.

I suppose that twelve years of age is that lovely point in life where vacillation sets in, for some more deeply than others. Seemingly overnight, I became consumed with anxiety and clothed in insecurity. I refused to go to school, isolated myself from my friends, and spent an embarrassing amount of hours watching daytime television. People began to treat me as if I would shatter at any moment. My parents dragged me from this doctor to that therapist, trying to figure out what had gone wrong with their kid. My grandma prayed to whoever would listen. Nothing worked.

Then, the summer before eighth grade, I discovered the flat iron.

And it might have been purely coincidental. It might have been the weather. It might have been a distorted mirror or a rapid hormonal shift. All I know is that it appeared that I had found the happiness I had lost one year ago.

From that point on, there was a chunk of time where it seemed I was “back to normal”, so to speak. I went to school, spent time with friends, and straightened my hair; once a day, twice a day, sometimes three times a day. My mom began to suggest that I give my hair a break. I refused.

Because I wasn’t pretty without straight hair.

Because nobody would like me without straight hair.

Because I hated my natural curls.

Because I still hated myself.

And once again, I felt myself begin to slide, slide back into school days at home, isolation from friends, hours of TLC reruns. I acquired a wealth of knowledge about the crisis that is selecting a wedding dress, how to parent identical quadruplets, and what not to wear. During the commercial breaks, I also discovered one more thing - the problem was not so much my hair. The problem was where I was searching to discover my value. I was looking for myself in the approval of my peers, in the reflection in the mirror.

It has taken over four years, taken the love of some amazingly amazing family and friends, taken more beat-up journals than I can count, to learn that I am not the texture of my hair, or the size of my clothing, or the grades on my transcript. Rather, I am my passion for puppies and psychology and working with people. I am the navy Crocs that have walked with me through the sands of my favorite beaches and the trails of summer camp. I am tattered copies of the Babysitter’s Club, black coffee, rom-com’s on my best friend’s sofa, and bowls of mac and cheese. I am tortoiseshell glasses and crazy curls. I am me, naturally and unapologetically.

Who are you? Who are you really?

I believe in self-love, purely and wholly and unconditionally.

I believe that everyone is beautiful.

I believe that a great struggle has the power to become a great story.