The Mirror Doesn't Tell the Whole Story

You looked in the mirror today with that harsh gaze that has become an old habit. You counted your flaws before you even noticed a single good thing about yourself. You compared your body, your age, your face, to some invented standard I'm not even sure where you got, but that you've accepted as absolute truth.

I was the artist who drew every detail of you with my own hands, with the care of someone who is in no hurry. I did not miss a stroke — not in a single curve, not in a scar, not in a wrinkle that appeared with time. What you call imperfection is, so often, simply history recorded on your body — of a life truly lived, of children born, of battles won, of years that were worth living.

Starting over here means trading the crooked mirror of comparison for the faithful mirror of my word about you. There, and only there, you will see yourself as remarkable, wonderful, loved exactly as you are today, with nothing needing to change first.