For most of my life, I’ve struggled to accept the person I see in the mirror. But it’s never been about insecurity, not in the way people usually mean it. My discomfort with my appearance goes deeper than surface-level doubt. It’s rooted in childhood trauma, in abuse that left my body feeling like a prison. This post isn’t just about self-image. It’s about healing, ownership, and learning to see myself as someone worthy of love and peace.

For most of my life, I have felt shame. My self-image was shattered, and the thought of anyone knowing what happened growing up was hard to accept. I didn’t want anyone to know. How could they view me as a person, not a victim, and not feel sorry for me? To tell me to stop being insecure when that wasn’t how I felt? Even looking in the mirror and seeing my reflection staring back at me was painful. All I saw was a helpless, sad, pitiful little boy. And to convey that to people so they would understand was always difficult for me. So I didn’t bother. Instead, I just hid behind a mask.

Compliments and Confusion

Compliments were difficult. When you feel broken inside, being called attractive or having someone flirt with you doesn’t land the way people think it will. It doesn’t build you up, it confuses you. Why would anyone want someone like me, someone this damaged?

I longed to feel comfortable in my own skin, but I couldn’t. My body had been used against me, without my consent. I was forced into things I didn’t want, and for a long time, I blamed myself for all of it. So as I got older, I tried to take control. I pushed myself in sports, in fitness, in anything to try and change the relationship I had with my own body. I wanted to see something in the mirror that I didn’t hate. But no matter how strong or healthy I became, that disconnect stayed.

The Truth About My Story

The abuse I endured was never meant to happen to me. It wasn’t some grand plan that I could learn from or know that I am strong and can live through trauma. It happened because someone was an abuser and took advantage of me. My abuse isn’t my story. My story is about reclaiming what was stolen from me. And it all begins with healing.

Over the past few months, I’ve been in intensive therapy. It’s helped me start undoing the self-hatred, start seeing my reflection without shame, and start accepting that what happened to me was not my fault. I’ve been learning to treat myself with compassion, to embrace who I am, and to believe that I’m worthy of being loved just as I am. Some days are still hard. Sometimes I want to retreat, to put the mask back on. But I don’t. I’ve committed to showing up as myself.

And honestly, the positivity I’ve begun to experience has taken me by surprise, in the best way.

I was born into this body. It’s mine. And I want to make peace with it. I want the calm that comes with self-acceptance. So, I’m choosing to put down the shame I’ve carried for far too long. Bit by bit, I’m letting go of the baggage. I will keep writing. Keep healing, and I will keep showing up.

Because I deserve happiness. And that’s exactly what I intend to find.