As I child, I hated my skin colour, my name, my boring hair colour, my height, my asymmetrical eyes and lack of lashes on a patch of my left eye. When I say “hate”, this was the literal word I’d use. Probably I’ve been bitter about lots of other things, but I can’t remember them all now. Largely because I believe my parents eradicated most of these insecurities by constantly reminding me that I’m pretty.
The power lies not in just repeating this like a mantra. It didn’t feel like it was just parent’s blind love - “No matter what others think, we love you anyway”. Nah, wasn’t like that.
Say, I was bummed out about my darker skin. I know I look white to most, but in my community I was slightly darker than others. My mom would always emphasise how beautiful my olive skin looks and how rare it is. She’d include this in every homework description I had to write about myself. She’d point out how other famous people have similar skin tone - this made me pay attention. Now I’m perfectly fine in my own skin (pun intended).
It went on and on, picking one thing at a time and making me proud of just how it is. Interestingly I think this didn’t make me narcissistic or obsessed with beauty over values and brains.
I have no idea if they did this deliberately, but they managed to make me accept who I am.
So, I guess, tell your close ones they are pretty 💛