The hardest thing I ever did was to allow myself to feel beautiful. No, I’m not kidding.
Believe it or not, at least for me, it used to be difficult to look in the mirror on a daily basis and tell myself that I was every bit as gorgeous as the woman on the cover of the magazine, the starlet playing opposite her leading man, or the young lady at the local grocery store who’s every bit as elegant as Audrey Hepburn.
But here’s the thing I finally realized about physical beauty—and trust me it’s a simple concept for me to have glossed over—it’s not in the eye of the beholder, nor is it defined by what society wants you to think it is (i.e. those women on the cover of Elle or Vanity Fair), but it is in fact a characteristic with absolutely no definition.
It was after the above epiphany that I began to understand that my personal quest to be beautiful will not be something I find in any mirror, but rather something I have spent far too much time concerning myself with because, in the end, it’s irrelevant.
My face, my body, etc. are filled with little imperfections that I can’t Photoshop or crop out, but those imperfections are unique to me. So I can either a) live with them and accentuate the parts that actually matter or b) allow my need to nitpick at said imperfections to lead me away from cultivating the parts of me that will be the most beneficial in the long run.
For the record, I chose to focus on the latter.
And even though I confess fully that my obsession with being fit caters a bit to that remaining vanity, I am okay with that because it also emphasizes to my daughter and son just how important it is to keep your body the temple God made it to be.
In the end, I know that this is me…on my best day:
And I’m okay with that.
Judging eyes be damned.