You Are Enough

Tonight, in a moment of haphazard honesty, as we cuddle on your tiny mattress on the floor, your sweet little three-year-old voice tells me that your hair is different than your sister's. 

She has short, curly, blond hair. 

You have long, straight, brown hair like me. 

I know it's been bothering you. You don't say much when you're upset, and you've been inching towards this conversation for a couple of days. I see you holding yourself together. 

"People sure talk about your sister's hair a lot, don't they?" I say quietly. 

I watch your face melt into a puddle in front of my eyes. I see it. That first pang of inadequacy that I know too well. That initiation into the world of comparison. That unfair moment when you acknowledge that something you have isn't what someone else wants from you.

 

"That has to get old." I say to you. 

I wish this were the last time you would find yourself at the mercy of someone else's judgement.

But, Darling, this is just the beginning. 

It is just the first time you will hear that you are not enough. 

It is just the first time you will hear that your worth hinges on your appearance. 

It is just the first time you will hear that there is a hierarchy of beauty, and that you fall short of the top. 

For you will hear that you are not tall enough. Too tall.

Not thin enough. Too thin. 

Not curvy enough. Too curvy.

Not dark enough. Too dark. 

Not light enough. Too light. 

Not pretty enough. Too pretty. 

You will hear that the other girl's eyes are prettier. 

That her clothes are nicer. 

That her hair is longer. 

That her body is prettier. 

That her teeth are straighter. 

That her nose is cuter. 

That her legs are smaller. 

You will hear a million times over how you don't measure up.

And as I lay here, your big brown eyes looking up into mine, I wish I could take that all away from you. Oh, how I wish I could shield you from the ugliness that is comparison.

But I can't. I know I can't. 

So I tell you that I remember a time when I wished I had blond hair like my sister. That I wanted to have hair just like her, not my brown hair. 

But then, I grew up, I tell you, and I had a baby of my own- with brown hair and brown eyes, just like me. And I was so happy that she looked like me.

You've moved on, now, as three year olds do. You're singing songs and not going to sleep. 

And I've come downstairs to lay my head on the kitchen table and cry. 

It's not fair, Baby. 

It will never, ever be fair. 

People will use you and judge you and compare you all your life. They will find your value in the way you look. In the things you can do for them. In the all the things that have nothing to do with your value at all. 

And they're going to do it whether I like it or not. 

But here, in this home, it will not be this way. 

We will not compare each other. 

We will not value one's attributes over another. 

In this home, we will love each other well. 

And when the world wears you down, and you feel less than adequate, you can come back home. And I will be waiting here for you, always, telling you that you are enough.