“I’m not enough,” I whisper to myself,  
as if the words could define me.  
My stomach is too soft,  
my nose too bold,  
my lips too thin to carry beauty,  
my arms too weak to hold worth.  

Every day, I face the mirror like an enemy,  
its surface heavy with unspoken rules:  
Be smaller. Be smoother. Be better.  
And I try.  
I try to mold myself into a vision  
that was never mine to begin with.  
But no matter how I bend,  
how I break,  
it’s never enough.  

What is "enough"?  
A mirage, a lie—  
a fleeting standard meant to keep us chasing.  
Who told you to measure yourself  
against something that doesn’t exist?  
Who taught you that beauty  
was a battle you had to win?  

Listen to me.  
Your body is not their canvas.  
It is not their project to critique.  
It is your home—  
built strong enough to carry your pain,  
your joy, your quiet triumphs.  

Your hands have held onto fragile threads of hope,  
even as the darkness tried to swallow them whole.  
Your legs have walked forward,  
even when the weight of the world  
threatened to pull you down.  
Your shoulders have borne burdens  
no one else could see.  
And your skin—  
it has felt the sting of life,  
but still, it keeps you here.  

You are not a reflection in the glass.  
You are the warmth of a laugh  
shared with someone who loves you.  
You are the strength it takes to rise again  
after breaking.  
You are the quiet, steady courage  
of a heart that refuses to stop beating.  

Forget the mirrors.  
Smash them if you must.  
Forget the rules they wrote for you.  
They were never yours to follow.  

Your scars are the proof of your survival.  
Your softness is the echo of love that stayed.  
Your imperfections are where the light gets in.  
You were never meant to be flawless—  
you were meant to be real.  

You are not here to shrink.  
You are here to take up space,  
to breathe deeply,  
to let the sun warm your face  
and the earth hold your feet steady.  
You are here to laugh too loudly,  
to cry when you need to,  
to live without apology.  

Your worth was never in how you look.  
It was never in the size of your waist  
or the curve of your smile.  
It lives in the way you dream.  
The way you love.  
The way you rise again and again,  
even when it feels impossible.  

So stand before the mirror,  
not as a critic,  
but as a witness.  
See the life that pulses through you,  
the resilience in your eyes,  
the strength in your bones.  

You.  
You, with the doubts clawing at your chest.  
You are not broken.  
You are not too much,  
not too little.  
You are not incomplete.  

You are whole.  
You always have been.