...Eighteen Years Later

At eighteen years old, I am flawless.

At six years old, my classmate told me that my birthmark couldn’t be called a “beauty mark” as my mother had once said, because it looked too strange; that flaw stuck with me.

At eight years old, a boy I liked told me that I was ugly because my teeth were too big; that flaw stuck with me.

At ten years old, my best friend told me that I should wax my eyebrows because they were too dark, too large, too weird; that flaw stuck with me.

At twelve years old, countless people told me that I needed to eat more, that I “looked anorexic” because I was too skinny, too lanky; that flaw stuck with me.

At fourteen years old, nobody had to tell me anything because I was already drowning in my flaws and internalized self-hatred, weighed down by all of the seemingly trivial comments directed towards me throughout the years.

At sixteen years old, my boyfriend told me I was beautiful because he wanted me. That did not stick with me.

But at eighteen years old, I told myself I was beautiful, because after eighteen years, I have learned to love myself. That was the most important one. The only one that needed to stick with me.  

At eighteen years old, I am brave, I am strong, I am flawless for accepting and loving my flaws. This will stick with me.