Seeing Clearly, Now

   Used to be my mom’s photographs were dutifully developed, dated and tagged, placed in protective albums, and stored on a shelf where they were rarely viewed.  My mom has since emptied her albums, filling a large wicker basket with photos spanning the life she and my dad have shared for over thirty-five years.

   I recently stuck my hand into the basket and saw the seventh-grade version of myself smiling back at me.  Hair in a pony-tail, standing in our living room, modeling my new p.e. uniform for junior high school.  I felt very grown-up, wearing the same colors as USC.  

   I was going to junior high school.  I would have several different teachers.  I would use a locker.  And  I had p.e. class.  Every day.  With boys.  And I had to wear these shorts.

   The picture shows me smiling.  I was home; it was safe.  

   School was another story.  In school, the shorts were never long enough to cover what I thought were chubby, chunky thighs.  I wanted knee-length shorts, not burgundy shorts that ended inches above my knees.  

   I never saw myself as pretty.  And truthfully, it’s something I still struggle with.  Back then, I knew I wasn’t pretty.  Except the picture shows I was.  My legs were slender.  My smile, wide and open and bright.  And I didn’t see it then.

   It saddens me to know that I beat myself up back then for no reason.  All that time and energy wasted, worrying about the way I looked, telling myself how awful I looked.  And I didn’t.

   I’m honest enough to acknowledge that I am my own worst critic.  I can’t always see what’s really there; I can’t always see myself the way others do.    

   But seeing that picture of myself in my p.e. uniform really made me take notice.  I don’t want to keep repeating the same mistakes.  I don’t want to miss out and not see, not acknowledge the me that’s really there.