It was time to love me.
Not because anyone told me to. Not because I suddenly saw a prettier version of myself in the mirror. But because I was tired—tired of apologizing for the way I was born, tired of hiding, tired of feeling like I wasn't enough.
The truth is, I just wanted to be beautiful. That kind of beautiful that gets noticed in the hallway. That kind of beautiful that doesn't have to overthink a handshake or whether sleeves are long enough to hide a hand. That kind of beautiful that doesn't flinch every time someone looks a little too long.
But somewhere between the hate and the hiding, I realized something: I'd been praying to be sculpted by the sculptor, but I'd forgotten that I was already a sculpture. Just not the kind people expect. Not symmetrical. Not standard. But sacred.
My friends—Grace, Kim, Gerald—they helped me see what I couldn't. When I was drowning in insecurities, they were the mirrors reflecting back the good I didn't notice. Kim told me, "Bernice, you're not broken. You're just built different, and that's fine." Grace added, "You're not here to blend in. You're here to be a spark." And Gerald, as annoying as he can be with his teasing, once said quietly when he thought I wasn't listening: "Bernice is stronger than she thinks."
And maybe I am.
There's a hope that waits in the dark. And sometimes, hope sounds like your friends laughing with you after a long day. Sometimes it sounds like your own voice, shaky but steady, saying: I am beautiful just the way I am.
So now, when I stare into the mirror, I don't look away. I still see the crooked fingers, the uneven chest, the parts that used to make me cry. But now, I also see a girl who made it through. A girl with scars, yes—but also with stars.
The world may never change its heart for me. But maybe I don't need it to.
Because I've changed mine.
And that's enough.