Today was the first time I realized I was beautiful. It’s different from saying, “I’m cute because when I pose a certain way I look skinny and that’s cute.” No. I am beautiful. It is the regal look in my eyes. It is the dip in my hips and the way my hourglass figure isn’t perfectly smooth. It is the stretch marks, the battle scars, that have been painted along my thighs. It is the way I stand; shoulders back, feet planted, arms hanging at my sides. It is the way my waist moves with my body. It is my hair falling down my shoulders and my back. It is the t-shirt tan from playing soccer out in the Texas heat. It is the anklet I braided for myself, the arch in my foot. It is the way my legs don’t curve at the knee, the way they turn hard when I put their muscles to use. It is the faintest line of my collarbone and the smoothness of my neck. It is the way freckles litter my face like birds are scattered across the day sky. It is the rainbow of colours in my irises, from ocean blue to sandy brown. It is the way I see myself, the warrior that has become me. It is the feet that will carry me to my deathbed; the invisible wings that will lay me in my grave. And in one hundred years, when I march out of the ground, they will see me and they will praise. “It is her,” they will call out, “she has come back! It is our girl; it is our warrior.”