I am not beautiful, I am me. And you, are you — distinctive and damn proud of it. Please know that this is enough. In fact, it’s more than just enough. It’s more than most of us are.
There’s no gimmicks here, and no real tricks. I swear. I’m a cosmetically-inept tomboy, so if I can do this, you definitely can.
You’ve become aware of the people who need to stay in your life, and sometimes those are the ones that need more forgiveness than others.
Life is far too short not to think you’re the greatest damn gift this world has ever seen.
The casualties: women who, at best suffer from a neurotic obsession with a certain square foot of their bodies and, at worst, are directly impacted by the sexual violence that this visual dismemberment empowers.
We’re all just human beings. The only difference between you and them is the amount of acknowledgement they get from society. But then again, that isn’t beauty. That is just approval.
It may be difficult to detract such thoughts from your mindset. But rest assured, there are other, much more important things worth focusing on.
Give it a shot, remember that you can always go back to hating yourself if it doesn’t work out.
Those who care about me think nothing of something as silly as the aesthetic state of my hands. I’ve begun to grow to not care. I’ve begun to embrace the scars.
When other people demand to know what’s wrong with you, you mumble replies that are half-truths even if you don’t want to answer. Because, somehow, you think you owe them an explanation. You feel like you have to justify yourself.