For most of my life, I avoided mirrors. Except when I stared deeply in to them for, like, ever, looking for evidence.
As a child and tween, I looked for evidence that I was pretty. Or at least pretty normal. My definition of normal was small, bird-boned and slender, peaches and cream skin with a smattering of freckles, silky hair that curled just so. I'm pretty sure that idea came from the Brady Bunch. But what looked back at me was anything but.