I’ve always believed that self-love was supposed to feel warm, whole, uninterrupted. Like a constant hum inside my chest — the kind of affection for myself that didn’t depend on how I looked that day, what I was wearing, or how many mirrors I avoided. And yet, here I am, fully aware of my worth, able to list all the good things about who I am, and still unable to keep my stomach from twisting when my own reflection catches me off guard.
It’s a strange contradiction, loving yourself while hating what you see. People like to tell you that the two can’t exist at once, that if you dislike your body or your face in certain ways, you must not truly love yourself. But that isn’t true. My love for myself is real — I know my humor, my resilience, my compassion are irreplaceable. I know the way I love others is my gift. I know the way I adapt and grow makes me strong. I love the way my mind works and the way my heart refuses to harden, even after all it’s endured. But that love doesn’t erase all the moments when I flinch at a photo or avoid the dressing room lighting.
I used to think this meant I was failing at self-love. That maybe I wasn’t doing it right, because the world sells it to us as this linear achievement — you start from self-hate, climb toward neutrality, and eventually land in some glossy, body-positive utopia where every inch of you feels perfect. But the truth I’m learning is that self-love doesn’t require me to adore my reflection every day. It doesn’t demand that I pretend my insecurities don’t exist. It’s more like a partnership between two parts of me — that part that looks in the mirror with critique and the part that still refuses to abandon myself because of it.
Sometimes, my reflection feels like a stranger I’m forced to share my life with. I’ll see my face and think, That’s not the person I feel like inside. I’ll notice a softness in my stomach, a curve I didn’t have before, the way my skin reacts to stress. And in those moments, my self-love is tested — not by the features themselves, but by the stories I’ve told about them. The world has spent years whispering that my value is tied to symmetry, smoothness, thinness, youth. Those whispers sink in deep. And when I catch my reflection, I don’t just see myself. I see the weight of every message, every side-by-side comparison, every unkind comment I’ve ever absorbed.
But here’s the thing: I can still choose love. Even when the first reaction is dislike, I can follow it with care. I can say, I don’t love how this looks right now, but I still love me. That’s the difference between conditional and unconditional love. Conditional love says, I’ll care for you once you look the way I want. Unconditional love says, I’ll care for you right now, as you are, even if we both wish some things were different.
This doesn’t mean I never want to change. Loving myself while hating my reflection is also about accepting that desire for change isn’t a betrayal of my self-worth. I can want to take care of my body, to tone, to nourish, to glow — not because I believe I’ll finally “deserve” love when I get there, but because I already deserve it now. It’s an act of love to work toward feeling more comfortable in my own skin. It’s also an act of love to allow myself to live fully even before that comfort arrives.
I used to avoid cameras, mirrors, shop windows. I’d contort myself in photos to hide what I don’t like. But avoidance kept me in a state of fear, afraid of being caught “off guard” as if my real self was something shameful. I’m slowly learning to look, even when it’s uncomfortable. Not to force myself into false confidence, but to soften my gaze. To see my reflection not as an enemy, but as a person I’m learning to understand again.
The most powerful moments come when I remember what my body has done for me. This body has survived heartbreak, illness, sleepless nights, bad love, and worst luck. It has carried me through joy I thought I didn’t deserve, through pain I didn’t think I could handle. My reflection might not always match the ideal I’ve been conditioned to want, but it is the face and form of someone who has endured. And that’s worth reverence, even when beauty feels out of reach.
The truth is, some days my reflection feels gentler to me. Some days I catch myself in the mirror and think, Oh, you’re actually kind of beautiful today. Other days, it’s harder. I think this fluctuation is part of the human experience, especially for women, whose appearances are scrutinized from every angle. We’re taught to measure our worth in how well we can meet a moving target of “ideal,” and when we fall short, it’s easy to feel like we’ve failed ourselves.
But I refuse to believe my love for myself should be so fragile. If my love only exists on the days I feel pretty, then it’s not love at all — it’s a transaction. And I’ve given enough of my life to conditional transactions. I want the kind of love that stays.
Sometimes, loving myself while hating my reflection looks like doing small, quiet things that make me feel more like me. Wearing clothes that make me feel more powerful instead of just “acceptable.” Speaking kindly to myself even if I don’t believe the words right away. Letting myself be in photos with the people I love so that later, I remember the moments, not the angles. Giving myself permission to eat, to rest, to move, not as punishment or reward, but because my body deserves to be lived in, not managed like a project.
I don’t know if I’ll ever reach a point where I love my reflection every single day. But maybe that’s not the goal. Maybe the goal is to keep showing up for myself even on the days I don’t like what I see. To keep choosing to love myself in actions, even when my feelings waver. To remember that a reflection is only one part of who I am — a surface, a shell, a single frame of an entire, complicated, beautiful life.
I can love myself while hating my reflection because my love is bigger than the mirror. And every time I choose myself despite what I see, I am rewriting the rules of what love — real, lasting love — is supposed to be.
Lanalefay 