In elementary school, my mirror was always my friend. I could stick my tongue out as far as it could go and mush my cheeks together while laughing at my funny face. I could watch my toothbrush move in circles over my tiny teeth and draw pictures in the fog from the shower with my petite finger on the glass as I stood on my miniature step stool in front of the sink. I could style my hair however I wanted and still think I looked beautiful even if I was wearing polka dots and stripes. I could see myself dancing around the bathroom when my hairbrush doubled as a microphone as I shook my bare bottom kind of like twerking before Miley made that move popular.
In middle school, my mirror wasn’t as good to me. I stood in front of the same glass I drew pictures on and stuck my tongue out to and ran my hands down my sides and noticed that my body didn’t curve at the hips like the other girls at school. I turned to the side and noticed my flat chest sporting a training bra that I really did not need. I took notice at my bushy eyebrows so I kept pushing my glasses farther and farther up my nose to try and cover some hair. My forehead was covered with pimples and my hair was so frizzy I could barely stand looking at myself. I would walk past my mirror after a long day with my head down, petrified of what I would see.
In high school, I positioned myself in front of my mirror and plucked my eyebrows. I applied makeup to the parts of my face that I wanted to hide. I styled my hair in a way that almost covered my face because I didn’t want people to see too much of it. I pinched the skin on my arms and vowed to never leave the house in a tank top again because my arms were “too big.” I wore tight pants because I liked my lower half and baggy shirts because I despised my top half. I scrolled through my Instagram in order to set the standards for myself and my mirror consistently pointed out how I fell short of these standards. Social media taught me how to suck in a little bit and position my body in a way that would make me look “good” in photos. My teeth were not white enough and sometimes my cheeks looked fat when I smiled. I saw the mouth of a girl who was told that she needed to use it more and the eyes of a girl constantly seeking approval.
In college, I stand in front of my mirror and see a healthy body. A body that exercises and eats well, but sometimes indulges in chocolate cake. I see the arms that I’m still not so confident about, but can throw on a tank top and walk outside and show my arms off to the world because my comfort in the summer heat is more important to me now than how I appear. I wear makeup most of the time, but I wear makeup for me and only me. It gives me a confidence boost when I leave in the morning and I learned that that is totally OK. I scroll through my Instagram and look at the fitness accounts as inspiration. Inspiration to be as healthy as I can be, not inspiration to transform myself into someone I am not. I see photos as memories; a snapshot of a wonderful day or goofy moment captured with friends, not as a way of validating my appearance.
I look in my mirror and see insecurities. I see scars and flaws and sometimes I stare at the pimple on my face a little too long, but I also see beauty. I respect and admire who is looking back at me even though I don’t love every part. The uncertainties and anxieties are all in your head. No one is judging you and no one is seeing you the way you see yourself. You are your own worst enemy and you always will be.
