Beautiful, In Every Single Way

If you haven't read my friend Doahleigh's post on feeling beautiful, please exit this post and go read it right now. It's not long, and it's very powerful. I can wait . . .

Back? OK, good.

First of all, I want to give her a standing ovation for her bravery and awesome writing. This blog spoke to my heart, and I am sure the hearts of women across the country.

Secondly, I'm going to publicly say that I think she's a beautiful person, both inside and out. And I'm so happy to see that even though the memories of her story still put a pang in her heart, but that she realizes, at the end of it, someone calling you hot or not doesn't make it so.

While I don't have an exact moment like hers, I spent my junior high years and most of my high school years feeling less-than. Less than pretty. Too skinny. I had crooked teeth until my parents sprang for braces even though the price was so steep (Mom, Dad: THANK YOU. It was easily one of the best boosts to my self-confidence).

I grew up in a family who told me I could be whoever I wanted, and that was good enough. I can remember thinking, as a very young girl—elementary school—that I had long, pretty blonde hair, and my plan was to grow it as long as Crystal Gayle's. I had big, round blue eyes and running around outside all summer long made me nice and tan. I remember thinking that I was kind of pretty. And I knew I was pretty smart.

Then, junior high. A lot of girls were developing their cute little figures, and meanwhile the scale stayed on the underside of 80 lbs for me, even as my legs and arms grew. I was too skinny. Nothing fit me right. Everything that fit me around was about six inches too short. (To this day, I can't wear those cute Audrey Hepburn-inspired ankle-length pants.) Anything that was long enough meant I needed hips and a butt. And a belt that my dad had to notch about 8 inches in from the last pre-punched hole. I called it "garbage bag" waist. Incidentally, this is ALL OVER the runways the last couple seasons (and my beloved J. Crew catalogue). I will never wear it. Ever.

My teeth were badly crooked, and to top things off, I had no athletic ability. Boys didn't even know I existed. I was a band nerd. One day I went to school, and one of my very good friends from elementary school (no one I've mentioned on this here blog 'til just now) just up and stopped talking to me. I remember walking over to her locker, saying hello, and her shutting her locker door and walking to class with me in her wake, clearly ignoring me. I had no idea why.

I went home and soaked my pillow with tears.

That's probably around the time that I felt that I wasn't very cute anymore.

I remember my brother telling me one night that it didn't matter if I was cool or not. He gave me this long talking-to about how being cool is fleeting, and that the whims of junior high students are not to be taken to heart—what did we know about anything?—and that life was probably going to suck for a while, but it was important to remember that true friends would stick with me, and that I'd be a super cool grown up, and all those people would be stuck permanently at the age of 13. I was like OK, then you go to school for me for the next two years.

I was lucky, because one of my best friends, C, was my best friend then, too. And we stuck through those awful years together. We used to joke that we were really too cool for the other one but since we felt bad for each other, we'd just stick together. We were each other's best audiences (still are), and distracted each other from feeling too badly about random Mean Girl crap. We danced in her basement a lot. To this day, it's one of the most therapeutic things I do when I'm feeling low.

But here's the thing: my stupid brother was right. He was right about it all.

Most of the girls who had those cute figures in 7th and 8th grade? Well, let's just say a lot of their figures aren't so cute anymore. And I don't judge people that I meet based on their weight, let's just say that this is sweet justice for terrible people (who continued to act like little dictators as long as I've known them).

Most of them still have the personalities of two-by-fours.

(And, maybe worst of all, they've been made victims, too. Because many of them now only judge their self-worth by their looks.)

Here's the thing about me. OK, I still hate most photos of myself, but it's because I'm not very photogenic. I don't mind the way I look overall.

Oh, and my body? It might be a few pounds past the point I would like to see on the scale, but I stayed pretty slim, and eventually I gained weight. (I finally broke 100 lbs. in 10th grade. And trust me, being too skinny is just as bad as being too heavy, socially speaking. Or maybe I just missed the heroin chic and Land of Double-0s culture.) I'd like to think my body's pretty cute too. (PS: C turned out absolutely beautiful.)

But overall, what I value most about myself is not my looks. And I can decide how to feel about them. While it's certainly nice to hear a compliment, my self-worth doesn't hinge upon one.

It's the fact that I'm a loyal friend and confidante, a good compliment to my husband, a kind dog-mom, and that I am an intelligent person. (I know a little more about style now, too, and that never hurts.)

I wouldn't go back and do those years for a million dollars, not even if I could go back with the knowledge I have now about how it all turns out.

But I'll tell you what: that experience made me a more compassionate person. And I know that truly awesome women are not completely driven by their looks. They are driven by kindness, intelligence, and good humor. And women who can set aside those jealousies and shallow feelings and truly connect with other women are the women worth connecting with.

It makes me sad that so many people could relate to Doahleigh's story.

But MY GOD. Look at us now.