How I Learned to Love Myself — by Holly Denning

When I was in elementary school, I was the only person in my grade who hadn’t gotten braces. Everyone’s smiles were either laced with metal or already pearly white and perfectly straight. I was also the only redheaded girl in the school, my hair forever bushy and slightly out of control. My glasses didn’t fit my face, and my clothes were less than flattering. My face looked long with how long my hair had grown out, and I was unaware that I was “the ugly girl” in my grade.

As I grew older, I began to feel negatively towards my appearance. My eyebrows were bushy, having never been plucked or waxed. My arms had no definition and led straight into my wrists, with stubby fingers and uncared for nails waiting at the end. My legs had bumps, scratches, and bruises on them from my romps outside. I started wearing clothes more like what other girls wore, even if they were tight and uncomfortable. I wore makeup in hopes of other people finding me to be pretty. My smile was still disfigured and quite ugly, so I learned to hide it. Boys asked me out as a prank, and my classmates were surprised whenever I managed to find a date. I always brushed it off, but somewhere deep inside, I was hurting over what others thought was an innocent joke. Every time I received a compliment on my appearance, I almost felt good about myself.

When I reached adulthood, I learned about self-love and self-care. It seemed like a fantastic world to be a part of! I scrolled endlessly through blogs about learning to love yourself and your body. My favorites were, and still are, Stop Hating Your Body, Embrace Your Natural Beauty, and Internal Acceptance Movement, but I couldn’t help but to ask myself, however, if I would be perceived as vain if I were to begin to love myself and compliment myself in this way. Who respected a vain, ugly girl, after all? The blog Vanity Is A Social Construct told me otherwise, but I couldn’t help the nagging voice in the back of my mind.

Even with my worries over being perceived as vain, I began to do things for my appearance that I wanted to, even if it went against the social norm that I was used to following. I got pierced in places that weren’t my ears because I thought it was cool. I picked the clothes I really wanted to wear but never had the courage to try it out. Most importantly, though, I started paying attention to what parts of my body that I admired the most. My collarbones were always defined and smooth, and were something to show off. My tummy was flat and the scars on it gave it personality, not took away from it. My eyes had always been a point of interest, with long lashes and sporting a pleasant green color, even though I always had dark circles underneath them. My cheekbones are high and defined my face in a pleasant way. My ankles were absolutely perfect, and were something I chose to show more often.

The next step I took to loving myself was caring for myself in ways that I had not yet experimented with. I began to look into more types of self-love, including the ever important aspect of self-care. I began to battle my depression, determined to at least attempt shoo away the dark cloud that hung around my head. One of the things that I learned on my journey to self-acceptance was that it’s important to take care of your mind, as well as take care of your body. Blogs such as Depression Resource, Practical Self-Care Guide, and Self Care Zine are my current favorites, and they provide resources and advice that help take care of my mind, and let me know that I’m not alone in how I feel, which in turn help lift the storm clouds that occasionally block my vision. The lists and helpful messages that these blogs provide are one of the many things that helped me begin to see my life, and my body, in an entirely new perspective.  I began doing more than just altering my physical appearance in order to take care of myself, and began therapy sessions, doing yoga, taking mental health days, and finding safe spaces in order to vent my issues, such as Actually ADHD.

Over the course of a couple years, my love for my favorite body parts began to spread. It took me longer than I would like to admit, but I realized that I was just as beautiful as anyone else out there. The freckles splattered on my shoulders, face, and arms were suddenly artwork, including the odd one stuck somewhere else on my body. My smile was charming and unique, framed by a pair of kissable lips. My feet became small and cute, and my legs were now shapely and long. My hands, with their scratches and scars, showed my personality, and my stubby fingers were a gift I inherited from my mother. My nose gave me my own unique profile, and I found a style of glasses that fit my face in the most perfect way. I stopped dying my hair, allowing it to shine in the sunlight like a brand new penny would, and began to view its unruly nature as something that I could use to my advantage when thinking of how to style it.

The defining moment for the realization that I loved the way I looked was when I woke up one morning, bloated and sleepy, with my hair sticking up in every direction.  I trudged into the bathroom, and glanced at myself in the mirror. I stared for a moment, and thought to myself, “Wow. I’m cute.” I’ve accepted myself for what I am, and that is completely and utterly me.