Through her little eyes

My whole life, I wanted to speak.

Speak my mind, my soul, my body into existing in the only way I wanted it to — never truly accepting the gift that was given to me.

I recently looked at a photo — as I was pulling old albums from dusty boxes — playing on the floor with my daughter, who looked at a younger version of her mum with eyes of wonder.

I remember the memory well, standing by the majestic waterfall, lost somewhere between north Greece and Macedonia.

Orange and brown bikini top, daring white pants. That’s how it felt anyway. Daring.

I felt most outrageous in a body that was barely mine.

How did I become this insecure? Was it my fault? Was it society? Or was it my parents and their broken down relationship, like a stolen car dropped on the side of the highway?

But either way, looking back on that one image, I thought, “I looked young, plump even. Beautiful.”

Big, square, wooden mirror stared back at me.

My daughter, my sweet little girl, looked at her mumma in the reflection, curling her toes and flapping her hands as her two bunny teeth popped out through her smile.

If only I could see myself through her eyes.

I’ve got to teach her that beauty doesn’t come from the body but from the soul, and you my child, my wonderful miracle, have the most beautiful soul.