It took me many years to appreciate my hands. My papa would often mumble to me "women are supposed to have soft hands with long, red nails!," when he saw me subconsciously chewing them. Although innocent, those words have stuck with me. They began to shape my view on what it physically meant to be a young woman. I let those words grow roots, and thus become a reality -- That my hands were not lady-like. And if my hands were not lady-like, then I must not be a lady.

A few years ago I began to work outside and took on multiple demanding jobs. These jobs required both a level of strength and stamina that I had never encountered before. I had days when the pain would radiate from my fingertips to my shoulders, when deep breathing was the only way to relieve the tender skin and growing callus'. After some time managing the pain with lotion, breath, and tears, I began to notice the hands of the many other women who joined me in these physically demanding professions. They too were broken. They too had rough edges and deep canyons filled with soil, paint, sawdust and fiberglass.

Last year I began my career as a female famer and found that the dirtier I was, the stronger I became. I had many days during the season when I could barely move my hands because the soil had whisked the moisture out of each finger. As the season climaxed, the days when they were in pain became easier. I began to forgive them when the cracks in my skin were dry, callus' rough with nails too short -- I knew they had worked hard that day. They had worked the soil, planted the seedlings, and fed me under the hot summer sun. They bathed me, dressed me and helped me fall asleep at night. I began to watch my hands take on a different shape. A different form. They grew more mature and wise. I saw how they began to resemble my father's hands -- His hands also cracked and dry from a hard day's work, from his long bike rides in the forest, from the large Italian meals he used to prepare for us when we were young.

It took me many years to appreciate my hands, but I now look at my hands with admiration. I say thank you to them every day. I massage lotion into them with consideration. I brush the dirt from their cracks and remember how fortunate I am to have a profession that allows me to play outside all day and grow food for hungry people.

Many of us women have been plagued with our father's hands. Strong hands, with muscles knotted between tendons and bone. Each finger displaying a series of canyons that almost appear to hold rivers within them. Rivers that hold soil for what seems like an eternity. Learning to love a small part of yourself is one giant leap forward into loving yourself as a whole. As a woman we are often dealt the cards from others on how our figures should curve, how our speech should be spoken, even what our self-love should look like. Choose one small part of yourself and give it a moment of thought and appareciation every day. Observe how it changes during the seasons, how it responds to your daily routine. Count the freckles on your knuckles and take note of how the cut heals on your thumb. Give it some thought, let go and just be.