(NOTE: This is NOT a plea for reassuring compliments. Any such commentary will be immediately deleted.)

I’ve never thought I was attractive. I mean that. I don’t mean “I’ve never thought I was beautiful.” or “I hate the way I look.” I just mean that I don’t consider myself to be an aesthetically attractive person. And I’ve sort of come to peace with that. 

Don’t get me wrong; I have days where I think I look better than usual. I felt that way on my wedding day, once during a Spring Festival Court I was nominated to in high school, once during a photo shoot north of Cairns in Australia. But these days are few and far between and seem to feel like breaks from my usual visual self.

It hasn’t always been that way, of course. In my early teens I was at the tail-end of early-adolescent-awkward-glasses-and-braces-hideousness and chose to ignore my appearance altogether, often dressing for utilitarian purposes and avoiding interactions with my mirror at all. Later in my high school experience, I was encouraged to explore my appearance as I was attending an arts school for theatre and an actor’s main tool is his/her body, so it was imperative that I looked at myself objectively.

When I looked, I saw the same thing I see now; a slightly overweight, average-looking girl next door. She wasn’t particularly unattractive, but she certainly wasn’t one of those women who would turn heads in hallways and on city streets. She was an under-the-radar mediocre and, as an actor, that should have been enough to work with. 

(This idea, by the way, was the basis of my relentless Low Self Esteem [LSE] and resulted in years upon years of allowing emotional abuse in exchange for the male attention I desperately craved. This, of course, is something I’m sick of talking/thinking about and is way way too cliche for my demographic, so we’re going to tactfully gloss over that entire aspect of my struggle with LSE so as not to make this another one of “those blogs”. You’re welcome. [insert smile here])

But naturally, as with most things in my late teenage years, I rebelled against this notion of mediocrity, grappling for a visual identity in a plethora of sartorial identities and never feeling a resonance with any of them. Eventually, I began hiding out in androgynous looks, wearing cargo pants and shapeless sweaters everywhere. This escapist look carried me into my college years and, although I took a few risks here-and-there, I always treated these bold new looks as crazy experiments, not suitable of someone like myself. I would love to resort to outlandish outfits with melodramatic zeal,  in hopes that everyone else would get the evident joke that I was desperately trying to make: I get that I’m not hot enough to pull this look off; it’s irony, people! 

The looks became increasingly bolder and, in my early twenties I found myself hiding out in them every single time I felt uncomfortable in my own skin on a public level. (Which, when added to my social anxiety was A LOT.) When I wasn’t hiding out in baggy, nondescript clothing, I was hurdling myself to the other extreme, going over the top with “looks”, coating on dramatic makeup and putting on airs like it was all just an act that everyone was in on. 

Not only this, I started obsessing about my appearance, taking photos of myself on a daily basis and plastering Photoshopped/retouched images all over internet forums and networking sites, practically begging for the confirmation and adulation I desperately wanted. I was never comfortable completely exploiting myself (unless I was annihilated/inebriated/drunkbeyondreason, of course. Then all bets were off.) but I was prone to narcissism to an embarrassing degree, all in hopes that I could quiet the resounding knowledge that I was average-looking. Somehow, seeking attention and compliments translated to happiness and comfort in my appearance in my messed-up thinking and I was a junkie for it, no matter the source. And all the while I knew that it was all entirely driven out of the fear that I wasn’t any sort of notable beauty, that I wasn’t one of those people who would ever command attention from her looks, and, mostly, that this aesthetic mediocrity was what made me worthless as a human being.   

When I met my husband, I was at my heaviest weight ever and had made a lifestyle of sobriety, which included a new modesty in my appearance. I’d dealt with my social anxieties enough to feel comfortable being seen in public, but I didn’t do much to call attention to myself and I had finally begun to settle into accepting what I really looked like. After years of obsessing about my appearance and my supposedly obvious flaws, I was taking the time to focus on my strengths and accepting my body as the vehicle it was designed to be. I started shirking away from cameras, not calling attention to myself through outlandish attire anymore but focusing on the things that were unique and attractive about myself. I started bellydancing and kayaking and going out to do karaoke with friends and finally not worrying about how I looked doing any of it. 

Now, I’m about the same. I’ve dropped a significant amount of weight since before I was pregnant, which lends itself to easier shopping and general movement, but I’ve finally resolved myself to the fact that I may never be a striking beauty that people whisper about and envy and that’s alright with me. My whole life I prayed for a significant other who would tell me I’m beautiful every day (I even argued constantly with one of my exes because he would rarely dole out compliments… sigh...), and today I have a husband who does just that, even when I was at my most pregnant or my heaviest in post-pregnancy or when I’m at my most disgusting in the early morning or when I’m a sniffling, coughing, snotty mess. Although it’s a completely new concept for me, not caring about how I look but knowing that I do visually please my partner is a welcome relief from my old habits. I still dodge his camera lens when I can, but I take a lot of comfort knowing that the weight of my old low self-esteem is being helped along by someone who loves me. 

But my focus isn’t entirely off aesthetics altogether. I’ve now become obsessed with the beauty in my daughter, often gazing at her for hours and admiring her perfect skin and puffy cheeks and wispy blonde hair and devastating blue eyes.  I love her pudgy thighs and tiny toes and pointy ears and crooked teeth with more enthusiasm than I ever loved any teenage crush.

And yes, I’m fully aware that she’s not what most people would classify as the epitome of beauty. I’ve honestly never cared less about those sort of societal standards in my life. I’m perfectly happy moving the spotlight to her, turning the attention from myself to her on every possible occasion I get, plastering images of her to show off to friends and family. For the first time ever, I show off these sort of images without a care in the world as to the responses they garner. I beam at the compliments she receives but they don’t affect me in any way after my smile ends. I am certain that if she never received another compliment about her appearance for the rest of her life, I would never find her any less beautiful.

I’ll admit it’s a strange way to find confidence despite the opinions of others, but I genuinely can’t think of a better way to learn such an important lesson.

Scruffy wisps of dirty blonde hair are combed over the bald spots on her peeling scalp that perches atop an enormous forehead. Between pointy Yoda-esque ears, two spherical cheeks monopolize her pudgy face and nearly obscure her mouth, empty except for a few crooked teeth running along her upper and lower gums. Although hairless and free of dimples, her limbs are encased in doughy fat that conceals her knees and elbows almost entirely. This would seem out of proportion if not for her rotund gut that protrudes far past her beltline and comprises the majority of her mushy body.

But when she smiles, her eyes twinkle and, as she shouts indecipherable gibberish at me through toothless gums, I never doubt that my daughter is easily the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.

Happy First Birthday, Bear.