My partner adores my appearance. If you were to ask him to describe me, he’d say I possess luxurious, wavy hair that shimmers like silver. He would insist that I don’t require makeup; my hazel eyes are filled with mysteries and a hint of mischief that brighten my face. He has a particular fondness for my lips, which he claims are a striking red, reminiscent of ripe strawberries, and could serve as a model for Cupid’s perfect bow.
He believes my waist is petite and my belly has a gentle curve that adds to my allure. My bust is full and round, complementing my hips perfectly. My legs are long and gracefully taper into delicate ankles, making my feet look stunning whether in flats or heels. I am voluptuous. I am soft.
He can’t get enough of me. He cherishes my shapeliness, how my curves fit perfectly in his hands, how my hair dances around his face when he kisses me. He loves to watch me walk away, and I love feeling his gaze upon me.
His perception is so powerful that it often makes me believe it, too. When he tells me I am beautiful, I feel invincible. I am fierce. I am strong. I am feminine. I walk with elegance when I see myself through his eyes. My smile is genuine, and my laughter dances in the lines around my eyes. My hips sway with each step, and my breasts stand tall. The contours of my body are soft, with the slope of my shoulders blending seamlessly into the strength of my arms, shaped by years of mothering.
Yet, I am often taken aback when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I expect to see the vision my partner sees, but instead, I find a woman who feels disconnected from his adoration. I wonder where the discrepancy lies—in his perception or my self-image?
The reflection in the mirror brings a familiar ache—a sensation akin to disappointment. It’s not quite shame, but rather the heaviness that comes from feeling like I’ve let someone I love down. It reminds me of a childhood memory when I accidentally shattered my mother’s cherished china serving tray. Her grief was palpable, and I felt the weight of my mistake deeply.
As an adult, that same feeling washes over me when I pass by a reflective surface. The person I see feels like a faint shadow of the confident woman in my partner’s eyes. I don’t recognize the vibrant powerhouse; instead, I see a tired suburban mother. My hair, while nice, feels heavy and lacks volume, its color dulled to a brownish hue due to hormonal changes from pregnancy. My eyes, though a lovely shade of hazel, are overshadowed by pale lashes that need mascara to stand out. My cheeks are full, my lips chapped from neglect, and my skin shows the signs of aging, including a deep line between my brows.
I am more than just voluptuous; I’m layered with the remnants of motherhood. My waist is hidden by the remnants of baby weight, and my belly tells a story with silvery lines from where my skin stretched. I carry a scar from a surgery that ensured my children’s safety. My breasts, though full, sag from nursing three little ones. My legs are long, but they’ve softened, and I no longer wear high heels.
Reconciling the reality of my body with the idealized image in my partner’s mind is a daily struggle. However, I admire the woman he loves—she is who I aspire to be. I choose her; I embrace the reflection of my partner’s affection. I reject the image in the mirror.
And that makes me fierce.
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In summary, the journey of self-acceptance is a complex one, shaped by both external perceptions and internal struggles. Embracing the love and admiration from our partners can help us navigate our own insecurities and ultimately empower us to become the women we aspire to be.