I know you don’t see it; not today anyway. But you are perfect.

It’s hard to see because you are tired. Tired of comparing yourself to the impossible. Tired of wondering why you don’t measure up, why things can’t be different. Tired of asking yourself how you could possibly begin to look like her. Or her. Or her. Soon you start to forget all the perfect parts of yourself because they don’t look like someone else’s. They don’t look perfect to you anymore because now you’re confused about what perfect is.

So you dig further. You try to copy her and the other perfect girls. You buy the same clothes. You try to mimic her makeup, do exactly what she does. Smile like her, pose like her, curl your hair just like she does. But it doesn’t look the same. The lashes don’t look right with your complexion and everything is wrong because it’s not like hers. You ask yourself why you’re like this, why you couldn’t look like her. You obsess over every tiny detail, yet somehow miss the bigger picture.

Before you know it, it’s spiraling. You’re so busy trying to look like, and feel like, and act like the perfect girls, you don’t know who you are anymore. You don’t want to be who you are anymore. You start to hate yourself. Nothing about you is anything like her, so it must not be right. It must not be perfect. You lay awake at night, planning and plotting all the things you’ll do in the morning to make yourself more like her. To make yourself more perfect.

But you’re not supposed to be like her, you’re supposed to be like you.

Every freckle, every stretch-mark was painted on your body like florals to a piece of China. You are a piece of art, crafted delicately with love and a painstaking attention to detail. You are lovely and soft, yet somehow the edges are rough. You are a unique combination of delicate strength. And I know you don’t see it, but you are perfect.

I don’t want you to lose yourself in the effort of becoming like someone else. I want you to fall in love with yourself, just the way I have fallen for you. And I want you to understand that perfection is not a singular definition, but rather a thought starter, open to interpretation and as fluid as every vein in your body. You don’t need validation, but I will give it to you. And while I will gladly spend every day telling you that you’re beautiful and charming, and the love of my life, I want you to be able to see it for yourself.

Tomorrow I want you to wake up and feel as light as a feather. I want you to smile before your eyes even open. And when you look in the mirror, I want you to find at least one thing to call perfect.

Because I can see at least a dozen.