Tonight I watched the episode of Glee called "Born this Way", and it really left an impression on me. I strongly suggest you watch it, and you'll see what I mean. It kind of inspired me to share this. I've been contemplating writing a post about this for some time. I've even made several drafts, but somehow I can never really figure out what to say. So you can skip this if you want, and read the more fun posts with pictures, but I think I need to do this for me.

At the beginning of the fourth grade, we had to do an art project where the silhouette of our head was traced onto paper and we could decorate it however we wanted. I was sick the day they did most of this, so I did my project at home. I remember working SO hard on it, spending hours colouring it just so. I drew my brand new burgundy glasses that I was excited about. I used every shade of brown to do my hair and even threw in a few of the natural red streaks that my mum told me I got in the summer. I coloured my favourite sweater on to look exactly like it was knitted, complete with little embroidered flowers. The next day, I carefully took it out of my backpack and proudly handed it in to the teacher before school started. She stapled it to the top right hand corner of the bulletin board. Then lunch came. Everyone was commenting on the silhouettes, one by one. Finally they came to mine. The other kids had covered their projects in bright swirls and funky patterns. Mine was the only one that had been realistically done. They said it was stupid, that I hadn't even done the assignment right, that I didn't have red in my hair, that the lips were uneven. My beautiful art project was torn to shreds. And since it was basically a picture of me, it felt like they were tearing me to shreds. That was the first time I felt really ugly. Or maybe it was the first time I cared. Either way, I took the picture home and destroyed it. I began wearing shapeless, baggy clothes. I didn't think that I deserved to wear anything nice. What should have been a mere phase lasted six entire years, a period now referred to affectionately by my father as the "Bag Lady Years". Good ol' Dad. Haha. But even when I stopped wearing the elasticized stretchy pants and old grandma t-shirts, I still didn't feel pretty. I didn't feel pretty when I started wearing makeup. Or the first time I wore heels. I didn't even feel pretty in my grad dress.

I still have days where I don't feel so hot about myself. There have been times when my mum has ordered me to list five things I liked about myself, and I couldn't even do that. But I'm getting better! It's kind of starting to hit me that sometimes, it doesn't matter if no one has ever told me I'm pretty. It doesn't really matter if I wear fancy clothes, as long as I like what I'm wearing and it's modest because that's important to me. It doesn't really matter that I was never drop-dead gorgeous, because it's meant that people have had to become friends with me for me, not for what I seem to be or look like. When I compare myself to where I was even a year ago, I know I'm doing okay. And I think slowly (very slowly), I might even be beginning to like parts of myself...

And now I'm going to go watch some more Glee. :)