Yesterday I woke up to the realization that I was born into a cult.
A cult that has so deeply brainwashed me that–even with my new found clarity–I’m not sure I will ever be able to separate myself from it.
This cult says that outward beauty should be one’s greatest aspiration–and I fear that it is many members strong.
Yes. I’m in deep. And the fact that I even paused to think, as I drove my kids to the library–sans makeup, messy bun, clothes that would land me a spot on the TV show, “What Not to Wear”–that perhaps I shouldn’t be seen in public the way I looked, really ticked me off.
“Why shouldn’t I be seen?” I wanted to yell. “If I want to look this way who cares?”
Yes…
Who cares?
That’s when reality pierced me. The reality that I’m the one who cares.
I’m the one who carries myself differently, thinks differently, interacts differently… when I don’t feel beautiful.
I am angry with me.
Because, though it may be true that I was born into a cult, it is my thoughts and my thoughts alone that will dictate the bearing this will have on my life.
And if, when you come around the corner to find me–whether I’m all made up or not–the smile on my face and light in my eyes lets you know how beautiful you are to me,
I’ll know that I’m finally getting it right.
