I turn thirty this month. I feel much older inside; frayed and chipped and sagging.
I don’t mind so much what the outside looks like anymore. My insides are what need nurturing.
I don’t mind because it’s a gift to have a body, present and whole on this earth. A body that is free to do what I want it to do (most of the time).
Since my three-year-old daughter passed away, I’ve come to realize how pathetic our obsession with looking good is.
We are always lacking something, it seems.
Straight teeth. Nice hair. Wrinkle-less skin. Perk. Oomph.
We are so hard on ourselves.
And it doesn’t matter.
I held my daughter and wailed into the folds of her neck as she passed into eternity. I held her perfect body, that will never grow into womanhood. Everything about her was divine. I know she wouldn’t care if she grew up with crooked teeth or imperfect skin. She would have been thrilled to just grow up.