When I was a teenager, I hated how I look. I hated how my hair seemed so straight and wiry, how high my forehead was, how far apart my eyes were. I especially hated my nose, which I thought seemed so flat and squishy. I looked a lot like my father, and I sometimes resented the fact that I inherited a lot of his physical attributes.
So, like any other kid going through puberty, I had a lot of insecurities. And the fact that my skin decided at that particular point to break out with a gajillion pimples just seemed like extra unnecessary crap piled onto an already steaming mound known as my life.
I'm not sure when I decided to embrace my features. But I remember a particular moment, when I was walking by a mirror one day, and noticing the slight hunch of my shoulders, and the way I seemed to drag my footsteps. I remember thinking that just because I hated the way I look, it didn't mean I actually had to look like I was the most hatefully ugly creature in the world. So I made a mental note to make sure I stand a little straighter, and I carry myself as if I thought I was gorgeous. It took a while before I got used to pushing my shoulders back, and carrying my feet, but at some point I learned how to, and that was when I changed.
The change was mostly internal I think. A shifting of perspective. Days where I looked at the mirror and thought, "I don't look so bad". Or moments when I felt that I totally rocked. My confidence grew, and I started really liking how I looked, how different I seemed to be from any other person. It was then that I realized I actually liked being me, and that I really had nothing to complain about.
Then one day, I realized how lucky I was. I wasn't perfect, but the imperfections made me feel more, well, me. And I loved the idea that, maybe, I was created exactly as I should be.
Photo taken here.