I gave you the benefit of the doubt and tried to believe that you sincerely meant for what you said to be taken as a compliment. What I never told you was that, to this day, what you said to me remains one of the worst insults I have ever received. The way that my parents’ DNA danced around each other in the process of my own physical becoming has nothing to do with the way that my words impact whoever takes the time to read them. The goosebumps I have been accused of summoning on the skin of strangers with my words have nothing to do with my face. My ability to retell my own story and the things I have seen have nothing to do with the color of my eyes, or the length of my eyelashes. The impact of my voice has nothing to do with the shape or the color of my lips. The strength that people take from my writing has nothing to do with my jawline.
The world’s interpretation of my art and its interpretation of my face have absolutely nothing to do with one another.
I’m sorry that your writing didn’t receive the attention from your own audience that you hoped it would. I’m sorry that you are insecure in your own ability to conjure up honesty with your own fingertips dancing across keyboards. I’m sorry if you think your own physical appearance has had a negative impact on your passion, and the way that the world receives it.
I hope you find security in your own voice, and I hope you learn to keep writing anyway.
Eventually, you will be heard, and you will learn that people don’t just read with their eyes. They read with their hearts and minds, and they gravitate to you because of your stories, your voice, and your talent. I hope someday, you find the courage to step away from the mirror and discover where your own beauty truly resides, because I’ve seen it all along.
Just keep writing.