I tell her she is beautiful. Truly beautiful. Because, in the mirror, I see how whole she is. How healed, how hurt, how loving, how loved, how strong, how vulnerable, how brave, how afraid, how confused, how concerned and how joyful.
I’m in the midst of surgical anniversaries, body traumas I have not been able to write, harm done to me by those I have loved without reservation, and pain I am still struggling to shed. It hurts, this space. But it is also a growing space.
You did not know what to think of me. I was a young bird cupped in your palms. My heart beat frantically, but my wings remained folded under your fingers. You did not know what to do with me. I was beautiful, but not in the way you expected. I was mottled and gray and brown and dull. I was subdued, yet radiant. It struck you wrong. You did not know what to make of me. I was half-formed to your eyes. I required guidance and a wisdom only you