This morning my husband posted a photo of me on his instagram. For some context, the last time he posted on instagram was literally 2013, but he loved the photo he took so much that he wanted to post it.
It’s a simple close-up of my face, sleepy and sheepishly grinning at him in my pre-coffee state. To me, this photo is nothing special. When I look at it, my attention is instantly pulled to the specks of flaking mascara under my eyes because I went to bed last night without washing off my show makeup (yes, I know, shame on me, but that’s just reality here). I see how the close-up image showcases my large pores, and I see the old makeup, and I see messy hair, and I see nothing special at all.
But Christopher? He has said to me at least six or seven separate times today how cute he thinks I look in this photo. He keeps saying I’m beautiful and lovely and adorable. He looks at this picture and he sees…me. Unfiltered and unkempt and beautiful.
Isn’t it crazy how we don’t see it? How we don’t see our own positive attributes because we’re so blinded by the little things? The things that the folks who love us most couldn’t even imagine noticing?
And in a way I am so grateful for that – so grateful to know that even when I see only my worst, I have people around me who see only my best. I know that he means it, I know that he thinks this is a gorgeous depiction of who I am.
And you know what? I think he might be right. I think even my most raw, unedited self might just be beautiful if I remember, every so often, to look at myself through my husband’s eyes.