They make it look so easy — those carefree portraits, half-laughed and sunlit, faces that say, Here I am! while I whisper, Is this okay? Do I belong in this frame? I’ve practiced smiles like they were scripts. Held my breath, and angled my chin, as if worth could be found on the right side of a selfie.

But healing is quiet, not photogenic. It moves through shadows, slow and unsure. Confidence doesn’t roar— not at first. It begins in small moments:

a glance I don’t correct, a photo I don’t delete, a softness where shame used to sit.

This is my face.
This is my skin.
This is the story I carry within.
No filter can frame
the strength it takes
to look and say:
I’m here. I’m worthy. I exist.