Looking in the mirror this morning… I was angry.

I heard a voice ask me, “what are you so angry about?”

I’m not sure. I just hate it all.

“Why? What do you see?”

I really hate my stomach. I don’t really know why. I’m 36 and still in a size 5. The same size I was in at 20. Just a little squishier. But it’s not flat and perfect. It never has been, but I hate it today. Now. For a long time really.

“I made you perfect.”

I really hate my skin and hair. My hair isn’t naturally blond anymore. It’s darker. More brown. My skin is still struggling with breakouts, dryness, and scars. And now I have dark circles and crow’s feet beginning. It’s just ugly.

“Says who?”

I hate that even though I feel strong you can’t see definition in my muscles. I really hate that I don’t look strong. I’m not lean enough. Maybe if I was leaner I’d look stronger than I feel. Maybe I should cut more calories. I hate what I look like when I eat anyway. It’s gross.

“I made you healthy.”

Maybe if I looked different… better… prettier… maybe I wouldn’t be so lonely.

“You belong to me.”

Sigh. It’s hard to give myself any grace. I’m my own worst critic, ya know?

“My grace is enough.”

Alright. I guess I should get back to work. Step out from in front of this mirror. Get out of my head. Get out of my own way. This is silly really. I am strong. I am healthy. My fluff, scars, crow’s feet…is evidence of a life of fun and adventure. And even though I’m struggling with 36, there’s nothing I want to do my body is not capable of. I suppose it’s not that bad.

*walks away from the mirror*

“You are my beloved.”