The other day, my daughter called me out. “Mom, you never say anything good about yourself when you look in the mirror.”
I froze. She was right. My first instinct was to do more of the same: Well, yay, look at me! Let’s admit this over-40 body is nothing to rave about—look at this [insert imperfection], and this, and that! But something stopped me.
As I dropped her off at school, her words echoed in my head. I started thinking about what my self-criticism was teaching her. If I couldn’t look at my body with love, how could I expect her to love hers? I never wanted her to feel the way I did—avoiding mirrors, avoiding photos, avoiding herself. I knew this, but I hadn’t been doing anything to change it. And now? Now, I needed to take action.
When I got home, I did something I hadn’t done in years: I stood in front of the mirror—in my skivvies. Not a full-length mirror, because, let’s be honest, I don’t own one. Nope, I climbed onto the tub just to see my entire reflection. It was the first time I’d really looked at myself in years.
And yeah—I hadn’t just stopped looking. I’d stopped being comfortable in my own skin. I used to love taking baths, but I hadn’t taken one in years. Even changing clothes had become something I rushed through just to avoid seeing myself.
At first, all the horrible, disgusting thoughts rushed in. But I stopped them. I moved to appreciation. This is just my body. My body isn’t my self-worth.
And slowly, for the first time, I began to look with gratitude. I saw the body that had been through everything with me and still kept moving. My daughter’s words had opened my eyes.
That night, I went to Instagram and started following vulnerable, unapologetic women—women celebrating their cellulite and rolls and scars with pride. A few days later, when my daughter took my photo, I didn’t say, “I don’t want to look.”
I said, Let me see!
Then I asked her to show me all the photos she had taken of me over the years.
I won’t lie—it was HARD. But as I scrolled, something incredible happened. Instead of cringing, I smiled. Oh my gosh, look at this! I said with delight. That was so fun.
And then? I started to laugh.
I laughed and laughed, flipping through photo after photo. I saw a woman who loved her kids, who went on adventures, who lived. And you know what’s harder than looking at yourself? Hiding from yourself.
If I wanted my daughter to love herself, I had to show her what that looked like. She deserved to see a mom who didn’t just accept herself, but celebrated herself—flaws and all.
So here’s to seeing ourselves as our kids see us. To looking in the mirror with love instead of judgment. And to knowing that we’re worth celebrating—every single part of us.
