What’s your favorite thing about yourself?

A novel is a mirror that passes by a high road and now reflects to your eye the blue of the skies now the mud of the bogs. And the man who carries the mirror in his basket will be accused by you of being immoral! The mirror shows the mud, and you accuse the mirror! Rather accuse the road where the quagmire is, and more so the road inspector who lets water stagnate and puddles form.

The curve of my smile, perhaps? It’s not perfect, a little crooked if I’m honest. But it holds stories, like a well-worn book. Laughter lines etched deep from genuine joy, the kind that erupts from my belly, uninvited and uncontrollable. There’s a hint of melancholy in the downturn of the corners, a whisper of battles fought and scars earned, a silent testament to the resilience forged in the fires of adversity.

My eyes, they’re not the color of a clear summer sky or the vast, inviting sea, just a muddled hazel. Yet, they’ve seen a world others haven’t. They’ve mirrored back heartbreak and fury, raw emotions that threatened to consume me whole. But they’ve also reflected a quiet strength I didn’t know I possessed, a determination that flickers like a candle in the wind. They’ve softened with empathy, witnessing the pain and suffering of others, and sparkled with unbridled curiosity, always eager to explore the unknown. They’ve held a defiant glint against adversity, refusing to be extinguished by the storms of life.

My hands, calloused and worn, not delicate or manicured like those in glossy magazines. But they’ve built and created, nurtured and comforted. They’ve kneaded dough, planted seeds, and painted canvases. They’ve held loved ones tight, their warmth a silent solace in times of need. Furthermore, they’ve wiped away tears, both my own and those of others, offering comfort in shared pain. They’ve clenched into fists when necessary, a primal instinct rising to protect and defend. These hands tell a tale of resilience, of a spirit that refuses to be broken, of a life lived fully and unapologetically.

My body, it’s not the flawless figure society bombards us with, the one that graces billboards and magazine covers. It bears the marks of time and experience, stretch marks that whisper of life given, scars that bear witness to battles won and lost. It’s a body that has danced with joy, crumpled in grief, and risen again with renewed determination. Not only that, but it’s a body that has loved and been loved, its curves and contours a testament to the intimate connections I’ve shared with others.

Yet, as I delve deeper into this reflection, a critical voice emerges from the shadows. It whispers of the times I’ve neglected this body, pushed it to its limits, ignored its pleas for rest and nourishment. It reminds me of the self-doubt that has plagued me, the moments I’ve compared myself to others and fallen short. It echoes the societal pressures that have made me question my worth, the relentless pursuit of an unattainable ideal.

But amidst this self-critique, a surprising discovery emerges. It’s not a flaw or imperfection, but rather a sense of acceptance. It’s a realization that this body, with all its imperfections, is a miracle. It’s a vessel that allows me to experience the world in all its glory, to feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, to taste the sweetness of ripe fruit, to hear the laughter of loved ones. It’s a body that has carried me through life’s trials and tribulations, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

My mind, the most enigmatic and unpredictable part of me. It’s a labyrinth of thoughts and emotions, a battleground where opposing forces clash and collide. It’s a place of endless curiosity, where questions are born and ideas take flight. It’s a wellspring of creativity, where stories are woven and dreams are nurtured. It’s a sanctuary of self-reflection, where I grapple with my identity and purpose.

But it’s also a minefield of doubts and insecurities, a breeding ground for negative self-talk and limiting beliefs. It’s a place where fear can paralyze and anxiety can overwhelm. It’s a mind that can be my own worst enemy, replaying past mistakes, dwelling on regrets, and creating scenarios that may never come to pass.

As I gaze deeper into the mirror, I see the toll this mental battle has taken. There are worry lines etched on my forehead, a testament to the countless hours spent agonizing over decisions, fretting over outcomes, and trying to control the uncontrollable. There’s a weariness in my eyes, a reflection of the mental exhaustion that comes from constantly second-guessing myself and striving for perfection.

But amidst this turmoil, there’s also a flicker of defiance, a refusal to be defined by my insecurities. There’s a spark of hope, a belief that I can overcome these challenges and emerge stronger on the other side. There’s a growing awareness that I am not my thoughts, that I have the power to choose which ones to entertain and which ones to let go.

This journey of self-reflection has been both humbling and empowering. It has forced me to confront my flaws and shortcomings, but it has also revealed my strengths and resilience. It has shown me that I am a complex and multifaceted being, capable of both darkness and light.

So, as I stand here before the mirror, gazing at my reflection, I am filled with a newfound appreciation for the person staring back at me. I see a woman who has lived, loved, and learned. A woman who has made mistakes, but who has also grown from them. A woman who is still figuring things out, but who is determined to keep moving forward.

And in this moment of clarity, I realize that my favorite thing about myself is not a single feature or characteristic, but rather the entirety of who I am. It’s the messy, imperfect, beautiful whole. It’s the constant struggle, the never-ending journey of self-discovery. It’s the knowledge that I am capable of both great love and great pain, of both incredible strength and crippling vulnerability. It’s the understanding that I am a flawed but resilient human being, and that’s okay.

I am a masterpiece in progress, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.