Outward-Facing Eyes
Beauty comes from within
It’s strange how one can go from being unaware of something to being consumed by it. You live a life in blissful ignorance then one day, your eyes morph. You see things you couldn’t see before.
One morning, I saw my beautiful mother angrily pinching the flesh on her stomach. She gazed into the mirror, a disgusted look reflecting in the clean glass. Her mirrored eyes met mine as she droned on about wrinkles, sunscreen, and fat. I was ten. I just wanted to go outside and go swimming.
But her words had a delayed effect. I would hear them when I was 16. It was prom night. I picked out a long white dress. I felt like a movie star, the bejeweled bodice clinging to my chest.
I sat in front of the mirror. My mom did my makeup. She told me I looked beautiful. But her eyes said more, filled with an unfamiliar mix of love, sadness, and anger. Her pretty lips curved downwards as she told me to appreciate this moment. I would get bigger. Older. Uglier. I wouldn’t be beautiful forever.
My inward-facing eyes popped outward. I could finally see myself. I noticed the tiny wrinkles forming around my mouth and the way my arms jiggled as I put on mascara. I’d been blind. But now I could see.
As I aged, my outward-facing eyes became all-consuming. Until, one day, I found myself in my college dorm with two fingers down my throat. My mom was right. I wasn’t as beautiful as I had been before. My previously childish body was bigger, with soft flesh where bone had been. My outward-facing eyes were disgusted, coldly staring back at me in the smeared bathroom glass.
Later that night, I got out of bed and paced around the room, trying to burn off my body — to make myself less. I angrily walked around my tiny apartment, regretting the piece of bread I’d had for dinner. My outward-facing eyes would only be satisfied when I was beautiful again.
That December, I was home for winter break. My mom and grandma told me to try on my high school prom dress. They wanted to see if it still fit. I protested and cried. They didn’t understand why. They said I was being sensitive. Finally, I relented, forcing my body into the white dress I used to love so much. The zipper wouldn’t close. My grandma and mother looked at me. They nodded knowingly, their outward-facing eyes confirming my worst fear. I wasn’t beautiful anymore.
After that break, my mental state deteriorated, as my body grew smaller. I isolated myself in my tiny dorm room, afraid to make friends. Friends would want to go eat hamburgers and fries and other things I was afraid to eat. They would find it odd that I spent hours in the gym each day. They might ask why I was so tired after a night spent pacing around. But mostly, I was afraid they would hate me because I wasn’t beautiful. No one could get close to me until I was perfect. So, I ate less. I punished myself in the gym. I kept everyone at arm’s length. And, it worked.
The next winter, I returned home once more. I was thin and toned. I’d lost the freshman fifteen. I looked good in my bikini. My cellulite was barely noticeable. My mother was so proud of me. She looked me up and down approvingly, commenting on all of the great changes I’d made.
I should have been happy. She thought I was beautiful. But that’s the catch. Even when others’ eyes are satisfied, they are no match for your own. After she complimented me, I went to the bathroom, berating myself for the fat on my stomach and thighs. As hot tears streamed down my cheeks, I knew I would never be satisfied. I stared into my cold, unforgiving eyes as a terrifying truth crept into my mind: I would never be beautiful again.
I lived this lie for years. But eventually, I grew tired. My outward-facing eyes were exhausted from scrutinizing myself in the mirror, hating the parts that couldn’t be fixed. My eyes grew bloodshot and weak from forcing fingers down my throat. My irises were weary from looking at the bathroom scale, the numbers obscured by my tears. I couldn’t live like this.
One day, as I stared in the mirror, I decided I’d had enough. I closed my eyes and peered inward. My soul was a childhood bedroom, dark and dusty from years of neglect. But I could see beautiful pieces of myself lying around, hidden beneath layers of dirt.
Day by day, with help, I started to uncover pieces of myself, remembering things I’d forgotten. Slowly, other people started to see me, too. Long-lost friends started to reemerge, and new ones, too. They complimented the way I made them feel. They complimented my laugh. They complimented my art, my quick wit. For the first time in years, I saw myself as I had as a child. I cried when I realized — I was beautiful. I had been beautiful all along.
What my mother didn’t realize is you don’t age out of beauty. You become it. Your exterior will change — this is true. No one can stop time. Outward-facing eyes will see your wrinkles and soft flesh. But inward-facing eyes will see beyond that. They’ll watch your beauty grow with each passing year, as gardens of kindness and compassion flourish in your chest. Experience will make your flowers grow taller, until they are bursting from your mouth, filling the world with their beautiful scent.
Today, my garden has been sowed. My kindness, bravery, and intelligence will grow. And nothing will ever stop me from feeling beautiful again.