March has brought a few changes to my life. Relationships and schedules are changing left and right.
Yesterday was especially hard. After hiding it from me for most of the day, my mom broke some news that sent my head spinning. I was shocked. I was furious. I was confused. I was hurt. I was scared. Did I mention I was confused? I was so taken aback that I literally could not process what she was saying.
I let it ruminate for a few hours while I got back to my normal routine. I wasn’t thinking, however, and decided to watch a show featuring a wedding. Show me parents just barely getting an “I love you” out through tears and I’m done. Needless to say, that put me in an emotional state.
I have this habit of talking things through with my reflection before bed on nights like that. It’s never a short “conversation.” The embarrassing part is that I actually like seeing myself fall apart. I watch as the tears fill my eyes and the first one falls to my cheek. I tousle my hair a little as I wipe the tears away and actually think “I look so pretty.” So I keep talking to make the tears keep flowing. When the well runs dry, I just stare. My makeup is smeared the perfect amount, my eyes are glistening and tired with just the right amount of sadness, my hair perfectly messy, my mind all out of words. And I look at that reflection and think “Now you’re pretty.”
I don’t know why I can’t think that way the rest of the day, but there’s also something really beautiful about loving yourself at your “worst.” Even though I feel ashamed every time I push myself over that ledge, I always feel so much more sure and secure immediately after.
As always, the situation doesn’t seem as devastating today. Not to say that it’s not a big deal–it still is. It just doesn’t sting as much as it did yesterday.
As I was getting ready for bed last night, I thought about all the nights I’ve felt inspired while lying in bed. I’ve always chosen to let the inspiration slip away instead of getting up and writing it down.
Well, last night I wrote it down:
As I wiped my makeup off, if felt like I was stripping away pieces of me. Pieces of armor. With each wipe, I was getting closer to my raw self.
I’ve always thought I’ve looked the most beautiful after a good cry or a long day. Even using the word “beautiful” about myself feels dirty. Feels wrong. Like I’m not worthy.
But that clean face staring back at me looked stronger than the made-up one ever had. She looked determined. She looked sure. She looked real. She knew that everything would work out. She had faith. She felt powerful and loved. She felt beautiful.