"God you look old without makeup."

Back in the late 2000s, I started taking photos of myself using my laptop's webcam. I'd just joined Facebook and perfecting the profile pic became a fun little obsession. I soon became acquainted with the crude editing functions that came with "iPhoto"—the self-installed app on my computer that helped to brighten, sharpen, and saturate the images I captured. Eventually, I upgraded from my webcam to a small point-and-shoot camera, and then to a proper DSLR (my first was the Nikon D90). I was the subject of 90% of my photography, partially because I was too shy to ask anyone to pose for me. But also because, by that time, I'd developed a bit of narcissism around my physical appearance, which ultimately led to a number of plastic surgeries (which I won't get into here). I grew very adept at "editing" my perceived flaws out of existence. I could get rid of moles, an unfortunate wrinkle, or even some cellulite with a few clicks of my mouse. I could make my teeth extra white, my skin even, and my arms taut with a wave of my cursor. But, I hated doing it this way. I felt like I was lying to myself and to everyone on Facebook by utilizing a computer program to make me look "better" than I actually did. So, I made a bargain with myself—I could only edit away those things I was actively  (undertaking the cost of) changing in real life. If I didn't want people to see my sagging belly, then I needed to get rid of it in real life—even by plastic surgery. If I didn't want people to see the mole on my right cheek, then I needed to visit my dermatologist.  These are the strange deals we sometimes make with ourselves. I say "strange," but, in actuality, they are toxic. I won't get too into the weeds on why I grew so obsessed with my appearance, but let's just say, I grew up in a house that overvalued a girl's physical "beauty." Instinctively, I measured my worth in metrics that resembled vanity. Was I pretty enough? Was I sexy enough? Did men fall in love with me? Did women envy me? Unless I could answer "yes" to these questions, I harbored an anxiety that I couldn't quite extinguish, one that seemed to echo: No one will ever love you, because you're too ugly. Once I finally started taking photos of things other than me—a beautiful building in Chicago, a young man I fell in love with right after I separated from my first husband, the aunt who was diagnosed with breast cancer right before she went in for her first chemo treatment, the friend who laughed so hard and loud I often refused to go into quiet restaurants with her—I began to realize that beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder. With my camera, I could make anything and anyone beautiful. Correction: through the eye of my camera, I could see the beauty in anything and anyone. Suddenly, the challenge was no longer finding beauty in them, but finding it in me.  Wouldn't you know it? The answer was so obvious. My beauty—the thing that makes me truly beautiful—was just that: the ability to see the absolute best in everyone. To see what truly makes them outstanding, spectacularly brilliant. It wasn't the menial task of photo-shopping crow's feet or brightening complexion or erasing a blemish. It was seeing beneath someone's skin, straight through to their intentions, their fears, their safeties, their loves. Valentine's Day is right around the corner. Even if you have a sweetheart you plan to celebrate, I'd like to remind you to celebrate yourself too. Ask yourself, What makes me beautiful? And be sure to go back to that thing the next time the world tries to make you feel like you're not. <3<3<3