Amina stared at her reflection for a long time that morning. The mirror showed her what it always had—deep brown eyes, thick curls pulled back with a scarf, a soft jawline, and lips that curled naturally into a quiet kind of smile. But what Amina saw had always been different from what was actually there.
She didn't see the warmth in her eyes or the resilience behind her tired gaze. She saw imperfections, softness in the wrong places, features she had learned to criticize, not cherish.
The words of others—those cruel, careless comments over the years—had shaped her inner voice more than she wanted to admit.
"You'd be so pretty if you lost a little weight."
"You have such a nice personality, though."
"No wonder you're still single."
They were just comments. Fleeting words. But they clung to her bones like rust. She carried them into dressing rooms, into dates, into job interviews, into mirrors.
Amina sighed and sat on the edge of her bed, her hands resting in her lap. It wasn't just about how she looked. It was about how she had been taught to see herself—through the eyes of others.
All her life, she had chased a version of beauty that wasn't her own. She had tried to be "palatable," "likable," "pretty enough," "not too loud," "not too quiet," "funny but not intimidating." A tightrope walk she never signed up for.
And the sad truth was—she had believed that being loved was a reward for being perfect.
That day, something shifted.
Amina pulled out an old photo album from her closet—one with bent corners and childhood memories. She flipped through pages until she found a photo of herself at six years old. In the picture, she was grinning, her front teeth missing, standing in a mud puddle barefoot and proud.
No self-consciousness. No filters. Just joy.
Tears welled in her eyes.
That little girl hadn't doubted her worth. She hadn't been worried about who would love her or how she looked. She was enough—just as she was.
"When did I stop feeling like her?" Amina whispered.
Later that afternoon, she found herself sitting on a park bench with a journal in hand. Instead of writing her usual thoughts, she began a letter.
Dear younger me…
I'm sorry I stopped protecting you. I'm sorry I believed the lies people said about you. You were never too much or not enough. You were always just right. I want you to know I see you now. I remember your joy. I remember your spirit. And I promise—I'm going to start loving you better.
The next step felt small, but it was brave.
Amina took a mirror from her bag—a little pocket one. She looked herself in the eye and said out loud:
"You are enough."
It felt ridiculous at first. Forced.
But she kept saying it.
"You are enough."
Again.
"You are enough."
And slowly, a crack in the old belief system started to form.
Healing didn't come in big declarations. It came in little habits.
Amina began complimenting herself every morning—just one thing.
"I love your laugh."
"You handled that conversation so well yesterday."
"I'm proud of how you spoke up."
She curated her social media, unfollowing anyone who made her feel "less than." She followed pages that showed diverse bodies, real skin, real emotions—women who looked like her, who celebrated themselves loudly and unapologetically.
She stopped comparing her journey to others.
And she started showing up for herself the way she had always shown up for others.
One Saturday, Amina went shopping—not for something to hide behind, but for something that made her feel alive.
She found a bright yellow dress, the kind she once thought was "too loud" for her. It made her feel like sunshine.
She wore it to a local poetry reading and sat confidently in the front row.
When the mic opened for anyone to speak, Amina stood. Her hands shook, but her voice was steady.
She shared a poem she had written in her journal just days before:
"I have spent too many years\nChasing approval in a broken mirror\nBut now I see\nThat I am not the cracks\nI am the light shining through them."
The room went quiet for a moment.
Then came the applause.
But more than that—Amina felt something else rise in her chest. Not pride. Not validation.
Peace.
That night, as she got ready for bed, she looked into the mirror again.
The old voices still tried to whisper, but she was louder now.
She smiled and said softly,
"I am not someone waiting to be loved. I am already love."
She wrote one final note in her journal before sleeping:
"Self-love is not a destination. It is a practice. A daily remembering that I am not broken. I am becoming."