When the caterpillar looks in the mirror and discovers its beauty

Do you ever look at yourself, really look, in the mirror, and wonder how you've become whatever it is that you are? I've lately taken to this thought, maybe in the excess solitude that befalls me in this current location, or because I've been listening to too much depressing music and reading sad short stories. Would I recognize myself at 23 (almost 24) ten years ago? I certainly don't look that different. I've still got the familial trademarks to which I cling-the short vienna sausage toes, the overmuscular calves, the well fed slightly lumpy middle section, and a decent chest size. I've taken to realizing that my taste in clothing in middle school was actually quite good, ahead of my time perhaps, and I've begun wearing some of my old clothes, since I lacked the courage, the perspicacity, and style to really pull it off. Sometimes I think that I've finally become the person I wanted to be 10 years ago-more courageous, articulate, less afraid of consequences, yet still wise and rational. At the same time, I see this vestiges of my former personas-the fear- of others' censure, of judgment, rejection, solitude. I walk on a precipice between embracing and rejecting this principles; transgressing my fears, yet still retaining a hollowness when I realize that everyone else is having a campfire without anyone inviting me. I remember those days when I used to linger in the bathrooms of school, in order to avoid being seen, alone, friendless, and fearful of the judgment that comes with it. Or the running away from awkward social situations, with groups with whom I knew, and still know, I don't belong with.

I remember the tragic days of spending time with the tennis team, with the girls of bouncy, buoyant youth, money, and suntanned perfection, and their expensive polo shirts and designer jeans. Or the individualist kids in my class- the ones with wit and humor and great taste in music, whom everyone wanted to date. I never fit into one group, as I do not now, here. I instead navigate an obstacle course of social situations, finding a common thread, or ground, appraising other's social skills and establishing whether or not it would indeed be useful to be their friend, whether they could learn to care for me, as I so quickly would for them. Or whether a brief friendship would arise from convenience, from youth and proximity, rather than any shared values, personal behaviors, or beliefs in goodness, love and caring. This is the field I navigated back then, and left empty handed, and it is the mountain I still scale, though equipped more fully than in days past. I used to be so ashamed of my loneliness, so desperate for someone to recognize me, to see my beauty of personality, to want me in his or her life. Now, I crave it less and less, as I know that people do care about me, just maybe not the ones here right now. I've looked in the mirror hard and long, and I've criticized so much of myself, analyzed so many of my faults, that I thought I might never be beautiful to anyone, not even myself. But the mirror is deceptive, and time is like water: cleansing, ever moving, always changing. Water is what creates our body-too much or too little causes death, in conjunction with an ever changing current of emotions and feelings that befall us.

I am not sure that 23 or 24 is quite what I imagined. I haven't fallen in love yet, or started a brilliant career in veterinary sciences or writing, or really music, for that matter. And I haven't become glamorously thin, like I always hoped I would, nor have I suddenly woken up with the voice of Ella Fitzgerald. But the things that have happened have been lovely, and organic, and change has come slowly and deliberately. For the first time in my life, I felt like someone worth knowing this year, someone with social graces, and a nice home, and lovely friends, and chic style. A woman cutting her hair short is about to make a grand change in her life, and I have. While I still see the echoes of my former awkward self, I retain the outer shell of a courageous young woman, neither child nor full adult, embracing the solitude of this moment, this day, this week in time. If I saw myself today, when I was 13, I'd be pleased, if not slightly disappointed, but trusting in the person I'm becoming, and the way that time has a way of unfolding itself, like a note someone passed to you in middle school. Everything just is.