My partner admires my appearance. If asked to describe me, he would mention my thick, platinum hair cascading in waves. He believes I don’t require makeup; my blue eyes hold enough intrigue and charm to illuminate my face. He especially cherishes my lips, which he describes as cherry-red and potentially the inspiration for Cupid’s bow.
He perceives my waist as petite, while my belly has a gentle roundness that he finds appealing. My breasts are full and proportionate to my hips, and my legs extend gracefully to delicate ankles, making my feet look stunning in both flats and stilettos. I embody voluptuousness. I am soft.
He is captivated by my figure, how my curves fit perfectly in his hands, and the way my hair frames his face when we kiss. He enjoys watching me walk away, and I relish the sensation of his gaze on me.
His perception is so compelling that it influences my self-image. When he tells me I am beautiful, I feel empowered—I am fierce, I am strong, I am feminine. I move gracefully as I see myself through his eyes, my smile genuine and my laughter evident in my smile lines. My body sways gently, and I carry myself with pride. The contours of my body are soft, the slope of my shoulders harmonizing with the strength of my arms, which have been toned by nurturing our children.
However, I am often taken aback when I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, expecting to see the alluring figure he describes. Instead, I see a woman who feels disconnected from the fantasy he holds. I question where the discrepancy lies—within his mind or my own?
The reflection in the mirror often brings a pang of sadness. It’s not shame precisely, but a familiar sinking feeling akin to when I disappointed a loved one. I recall a moment from childhood when I accidentally shattered my mother’s cherished heirloom china tray. Her reaction was one of profound loss, and in that moment, I understood I had let her down. As an adult, this same rush of emotions surfaces when I face my own reflection.
What I see is far from the vibrant powerhouse my partner adores. My hair, though nice, appears heavy and flat, its color dulled to brown by the hormonal changes of pregnancy. My eyes, a lovely cornflower blue, are framed by lashes that require mascara to stand out. My cheeks are full, and my lips remain chapped from neglect. My skin, while average, is beginning to show signs of aging, with a deep line forming between my brows.
I am more than just curves; I carry the remnants of motherhood. My waist, once defined, is now hidden beneath residual baby weight, and my belly bears silvery stretch marks from carrying life. A scar from surgery, a reminder of sacrifices made for my children, graces my abdomen. My breasts, once perky, have sagged from nursing three children. My legs, while long, are now fuller, and I’ve resigned from wearing stilettos.
Reconciling my physical reality with the image my partner holds is a daily struggle. Yet, I admire the woman he loves; she represents who I aspire to be. I choose to embrace the reflection in his eyes, disregarding the one in the mirror, and that choice fuels my fierceness.
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Summary
The author explores her conflicting self-image in relation to her partner’s admiration. While he perceives her as an empowered and attractive woman, she struggles with her reflection, which feels disconnected from his perception. This internal conflict highlights the complexities of self-acceptance, motherhood, and the impact of external perceptions on personal identity.