On the nights when I cannot sleep, on the nights when I stay up long beyond the bedtimes for my children, when even my partner has gone to bed, resting himself to greet the new day, I talk with my cousin. We are the children of strife, raised apart due to the animosity between our parents. It has just been in the last couple of years that our conversations stabilized, becoming frequent and less sporadic. Our topics of discussion are many, unhindered and raw; we speak of our shared pain, long wounds cut into our hearts by ill-meaning family members. Our talks are cathartic for me, to ascend to a new plane of understanding as we rebuild the puzzle of our lives with our own respective pieces from the years we missed growing up together.

It was recently that we spoke, our words encircling the subject of self-esteem. "I have none," I said. "I have nothing of which to be proud." No platitudes were offered, and for that I was grateful; rather we proceeded to discuss the beauty of one's soul versus the beauty of one's face, and at the end of it all, he offered, "you're a good person, Danielle."

I considered it then and considered it since. I have often been lauded as "good" and "kind," open, gentle, welcoming; the descriptors fall over themselves to sprawl in a warm heap at my feet. I have also been called "beautiful," "lovely," sexy, hot; again, the adjectives pile up and I stare at them in a sort of numbness. Whatever dark chemistry twisted my brain in childhood stole from me the ability to think highly of myself. I exist mostly in the grayness of silently shrugging aside compliments; I try to avoid mirrors, and the pictures I take are for other people.

I am scoffed at for this. I can appreciate the lines of my face and my symmetry; I am aware that I meet standards of beauty in our society. I am aware that this blessing, dubious as it may be, is what garners attention and affection from others. I am aware of my privilege in this world, though I see it as a reduction of who I am, not how I feel. The scoffing hurts, the accusations of 'whatever, you're claiming this for attention' sting. It is as if someone who meets these standards must also feel the "truth" of them, or else they are faking, fishing for compliments.

I contemplated what it meant to be good, a kind soul in a world driven by aesthetics. I give, I love. I take pleasure in being there for others, for letting them breathe their pain into me, so that I might carry it away. In a selfish manner, I distract myself from my own problems by focusing on those of my companions. I recognize that this is not a good practice, but, as I tell myself. it is the way things are.

I am not exempt from a culture that focuses on eradicating every flaw from the skin and figure presented daily. I too am focused on the wince I feel inside when I look into a mirror. But I have always been more concerned with how I am perceived emotionally by others. I blame no one for the way that I am -- not my family, not society, not my upbringing. If I am a person who is granted the feeling of pleasure in looking at my own reflection only once a week, then that is who I am. I have spent too many years attempting to change myself; what is wrong with me? Where is my self-confidence, even the barest hint of it? I have come to the conclusion that there is little wrong with me. This is who I was meant to be, a person whose discomfort in her own skin translates to a deep love and appreciation of the beauty in others, of their kind souls and gentle face.

I am much more content with what I have been able to offer others. My friends know they can come to me at any time and for any thing; I will not turn them away. My partner pointed out gently that sometimes I strain myself and my mind attempting to meet the needs of those who reach out to me, and while I acknowledge this, there is a deep and warm pleasure in my heart when I can help someone. This is what it means to be Good for me, the singular descriptive word of positivity that I have ever been able to affix to myself as a lasting characteristic. And being Good has rooted itself in my heart with greater importance than being beautiful.

I will not pretend that I have reached a nirvana that allows me to ignore the cultural standards of beauty, nor the unattainable bars I demand that I myself must reach. I remain tormented by the idea that I will never meet these goals, as arbitrary and ever-changing as they are. I remain stubborn in the ideology that I must try to reach them all the same, usually at my own physical expense.

But I am comforted when I am able to make someone laugh, when I am able to bring relief to a tortured heart, or comfort a friend in their grief. I am most happy when I feel Good rather than when I can feel beautiful. I feel as though I am existent in this world to be an individual of goodness. It is healing to me; it is a balm to those secret scars upon my soul, to be Good, to pass on whatever kindness has been showed to me to others. In a garden of beauty, I glean the knowledge of Goodness and breathe it out.