I picked the smallest pair of jeans I owned and slid them up over my hips.
They hung loosely on me, so I tucked my black silky tank top into them to help hold them up.
As I pressed the tank top down over my right hip, my hand traced the bony edge of my pelvis.
Not long ago, these jeans had been too tight to button, and I had longed for the day I could wear them comfortably. I had longed for the day I could feel at ease in my own body.
I rolled the top of the jeans over themselves and slid my green long-sleeve shirt down over the little ruffle formed by the folded waistband.
Passing the mirror, I caught my reflection. Something inside me urged me to pause, and I obeyed. I stopped walking to truly see myself.
I looked different. Of course, the physical transformation was visible, but that wasn’t what struck me.
As I stood there, gazing at my reflection, I recognized someone in my life who had once known me deeply—a version of me from the past. I had longed for him to see me as I am now, not as the person I once was, or the version of me that he still held in his mind.
But how could I hope for him to see me if I couldn’t see myself?
What if this longing to be seen was mine all along, merely projected onto him?
I realized the story I carried—that he refused to see me as I am—might have been a story I was telling about myself.
My hand moved down my side, across my hip, brushing over the edge of my pelvis where moments ago I had tucked in my tank top. This time, my fingers lingered on what was there, rather than the memory of what had once been.
My hips had carried layers of deep shame, piled like winter snowstorm after storm. At first, I had tried to clear it away, only to have more accumulate. Eventually, I stopped trying, letting the layers rest on my body, carried day after day.
Shifting my fingers to my chest and sternum, I felt the bones forming the framework of my being. I had once carried the weight of others’ opinions there, but that burden was gone.
My fingers danced along my clavicle and down my ribs. In releasing the weight of others’ judgments, I discovered the perfect structure to hold me—the architecture of my soul, crafted by God, nature, the universe.
My palm opened, pressed to my heart. Standing there, I finally saw me. Through my green eyes, I met my own soul, and tears spilled freely, warm and wet, a quiet baptism of recognition.
I realized I hadn’t wanted him to see me—I had simply wanted to see myself.
One tear slid down my cheek, soaking into my shirt, and I let it fall, letting myself fall into the beauty, the wholeness, the raw, luminous truth of who I am.