As a child, I was pretty confident. Not to brag (but also to brag), I was one of the smartest kids in my grade. Teachers loved me, and I had a pile of certificates and trophies that lined my shelves. There was no reason to not be proud of myself — after all, it seemed like everyone else was. I was bright and loved learning. I was kind to those around me (except my siblings, but that's pretty normal). Life was good, and I was on the way to becoming a confident and chatty young adult. I thought there was nothing that could tear me down. I loved myself in a way that children only seem capable of. But you're only a child for so long, unfortunately, and that love seems to run out.

The first time I can distinctly remember not loving myself happened about 10 years ago. I was 10 years old, and "High School Musical" had just come out. I (along with most of the world) was obsessed with the film. I loved the songs, the characters and to this day still love Zac Efron. But most of all, I loved talking about the movie with my friends and basically anyone who would listen. It seems weird that anything important could come out of discussing the merits of "High School Musical," but for some reason it did, and what I learned has stuck with me since then.

My friend and I were sitting against the blue tile of the gym. I brought up "High School Musical," and we talked about how cool the songs were and how I had just gotten the CD. All of a sudden, he said, "You'll never be like Gabriella; your arms are too hairy." I looked down at my arms, and sure enough, they were covered in hair. It was a fact. But at that point, I had never seen my hair as anything other than just something that existed. But when he said it, it seemed as though my hair was the most evil thing in the world, and that I was bad for even having it.

I didn't know what to say in response to that. Our conversation slowly died, and we went back to playing. It seemed as if that was the end of it when really it was just the beginning.

Puberty was coming up, and everyone seems to notice everyone during these times. I remember once, a boy commented on my breasts and asked what fruit I would compare them to. I was mortified. I became self-conscious about how I looked, and how others saw me. I took to wearing baggier shirts or wearing a jacket that could cover me. It was a shield that I hid behind.

From then on, the comments would keep coming.

At 13, they said, "I'd say you're about a four." I couldn't even reach an average. For the first time in my life, I was below average.

At 14, "She can't be pretty — she has a mustache."

Between the ages of 12 and 18, you can barely find any pictures with me. I have tried my best to hide them from the world because I felt they were really something to be ashamed of. That the imperfections people had said before were really obvious in these pictures, and so they needed to be hidden.

I could regale you about the things I've heard about myself, but I'm sure you can fill in the blanks with the things that have torn you down over the years as well.

And it seemed to be the only things people talked about anymore. At parties or get-togethers, we would talk about the things that boys had said about us, or what we did to change our appearances to fix these "faults." Not once did we talk about how it made us feel. It further cemented the idea in my mind that your worth was derived from how others saw you, and that no one had a problem with it. That I was just bitter because I was less than other girls, and not that these comments really did hurt.

Because I was less confident in myself, I wanted to draw less attention to myself. I stopped being the kid with her hand in the air all the time to answer a teacher's question and started being the one who sat quietly and did her work. I stopped being chatty, because I didn't want anyone to notice me. I began to define myself by these comments. I lost track of who I was and who I wanted to be in favor of a person who didn't exist, and might not ever exist. I loved a fake ideal, instead of what actually existed.

The real me sucked in my mind and was not worth anything.

I hated being around people because I was so afraid. Afraid that I would hear yet again of all the bad things people thought of me. Afraid of the feelings that would drown me at night, as all the comments seemed to suck the air from the room until I was left a pile on the ground, crying for all the things I wasn't.

As I hit 18, most of these comments began to die down. I surrounded myself by people who thought I was good, and people that appreciated who I was. But at this point, the damage had been done. The comments that people had made over the years had somehow morphed into a voice of reason in my head. For some reason, their comments became my own. Even my own mind wasn't safe, and at times it was worse than any comment that had ever been thrown my way.

But then I began to wonder:

When had I stopped loving myself? Why was it easier to let others tell me my worth? Was I really as "ugly" or incapable of being loved as my mind told me I was? Why was I so worried about being unattractive instead of being unkind or lazy?

As I sat down to write this, my mind began to wish it could tell my story in poetry. Something that would make this beautiful, or a little less harsh. That there would be a magical solution to make the hurt of the past disappear. But I realized nothing about this situation was pretty, and that what I felt was not something you should make comfortable. What I felt all those years, and even now, was not comfortable, and I would be doing myself a great disservice by trying to mask how I felt.

At 20, I am nowhere near the level of confidence I saw myself having at age 10. There are days I begin to see the good that I used to see in myself, and there are days where I feel like the beaten down 14-year-old I was. There is no magic solution to the damage done to us, however hard we may wish. Learning to love yourself should be easy, but it's not after you have hated yourself for so long.

You just have to take every day in. Learn to love yourself for where you are now, and love yourself enough to slowly start making changes that make YOU happy. Do things for yourself and show yourself that you are capable of being loved despite what your head may tell you. It seems silly, but on my hardest days I have to tell myself out loud that I am good.

I am the type of person that wants to believe the best in everyone. I pride myself on finding something beautiful about everyone. Now I'm slowly letting myself find what's beautiful in me. It seems weird at first, but it's a great feeling to get used to.

I know it will be an uphill battle, but I have found you are capable of so much more when you start thinking of yourself as someone beautiful on the inside and out. You are worthy. You are capable. You are strong. You are perfect without having to lift a finger.

I hope in time you find your own mantra. That you become your biggest cheerleader when brought down, and that you can find people that remind you how great you are when you forget.

For me, loving myself came from being comfortable with with making fun of myself. To laugh at being imperfect and then learn from it, instead of identifying myself by it. I'm slowly learning to find what's beautiful about me, and I love it.