This is me.
in a bad way. Just means
simply, only, no more than.
Although I wasn't able to have an entire photo shoot this week, I did manage to snap this photo of me. It's silly, yes, of poor quality, but it's me all the same. I snapped it right after I got home from a hectic day at work. I'm not dressed up. I barely have any makeup on. I'm eating Nutella, my hair is a mess and I have paint splattered on my hands.
This is me. Real and quirky and honest me. Like most women, it's taken me awhile to accept myself. Maybe I'm not quite there yet. But I'm learning. Each and every day. It's funny, the things you notice in yourself sometimes. Like my crooked jaw, elfish ears, narrow face, wrinkled hands. How small my breasts are, how thick and unruly my hair is with the strange cowlick by my forehead, the small line of fat that has sat below my belly button forever, my chubby toes, long nose, big teeth, loud voice, wide ribcage, curved back.
It's funny because no one else scrutinizes us the way we scrutinize ourselves. Our judgment is often times meaner, harsher, more de-feminizing than the things people see. The way others look at us.
And it doesn't stop there. We chastise our inner selves just as much. Our little habits, interests, activities. Our music preferences, our choices at dinner, our laughs and secret little girl dreams.
And it takes time, but eventually, we realize it is pointless. I am who I am because God made me. Wonderfully and beautifully and captivating and unique and loved. There is no one like me.
For me, books are the best company. Sometimes I laugh loudly and speak quietly. I never paint my nails, my hair has a unique wave and I get tongue-tied when I'm nervous. I like old French music, I'm afraid of the dark, and I will always eat Nutella straight out of the jar.
I am me. Simply, only, and no more than me. And I am glad for that.