Once when I was younger, I found a book in my house: a book of poems by Sylvia Plath. I was never one for reading at my own level, and I loved poetry, so I took the book to my mother and asked if I could read it. She told me to put it back and not pull it out again.

"Why?" I asked. I didn't see the harm in reading a few poems.

"Sylvia Plath," my mother explained, "is not the kind of person you can just read. You have to really truly like yourself to be able to read her."

But I'm pretty sure I like myself, I remember thinking. I was young, not yet a teenager who would learn to be insecure about herself and overthink everything. I couldn't have been more than 12 when I asked to read Sylvia Plath. But I listened to my mother's advice and avoided the poet until my senior year of high school. Young me was worried that if I read the book of poems I would learn to dislike myself. Even at 12 I understood that I still didn't yet know who I was, and how could I like myself if I didn't know myself?

Out of habit, I still avoid Sylvia Plath's work. Quite honestly, at the point I'm at in my life, I am unsure if it would even be a good idea to pick it up. At 20, I know who I am now; the fear of Sylvia Plath making me forget my identity is no longer a big concern of mine. But I am such an impressionable person; I always have been.

Saying I'm impressionable is much kinder to myself than saying I have horrible mood swings that can be set off by anything. This is of course true, but the former description is much nicer, more elegant. Calling myself an impressionable young girl is like describing myself in a Jane Austen novel. Although describing myself as horribly temperamental is also Jane Austen-esque. But I digress.

The art of self-love is never one that has come easily to me. Some days I'll think I've done it; other days all it'll take is one oddly-worded text or a glance in the mirror, and self-love is out the window. Ever since I was more or less forbidden to read Plath, I've been worried that all the work I've done toward liking myself will go away the second I read a poem by someone who didn't like themselves much at all.

I still don't know if I "really truly like myself" in the way my mother said I should before I try to read Plath. I think every day I get a little closer, and sometimes I move a step back. But the goal here isn't to be able to read a book of poems. I didn't understand when I first asked to read the book that liking yourself is one of the most difficult and complex things you can do. People say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but you're stuck with yourself for your whole life. There is no distance in which you can learn how to love. Sometimes all you can do is look in the mirror each morning and reintroduce yourself. Taped to my mirror, I have a small list of things I like about myself. In the mornings, I look at my face and I look at the list, reminding myself to take the time to learn who I am each day in order to really, truly like myself.