Beauty. Love. Safety.

Rough night in the Mathews household.

Emma was a grumpy, mouthy mess most of the afternoon. Finally, after multiple reprimands and consequences, I asked out of sheer frustration, "What is wrong with you?"

She climbed onto my lap, put her arms around me, buried her face in my chest, and started unloading a jumble of thoughts that were clearly weighing heavily on her. She doesn't like the way she looks. Her hair has holes in it and doesn't "stick together" and hang straight like she wants. Her face is a mixture of mine and Chris's, but she doesn't look like either one of us, just a weird blend of both of us that doesn't add up and makes her feel "like I'm not yours, like, for real." She likes her legs and her feet and her arms, but what does it matter if her face and hair are not perfect? Kids at school tell her she looks weird. Her teeth are crooked, her eyes are too big, her nose is "fat," her ears stick out. She hates all the clothes she wears because they don't cover up her face, and she wants me to help her change it, change her, so she looks like somebody new, somebody beautiful.

I was completely, utterly stunned. I tried hard to take in what she was saying and not just rush in with compliments and contradictions. I endeavored to keep my expression neutral, but my mind was churning with despairing thoughts: Dear god, this starts at eight years old??? I am wholly unprepared to tackle these issues so soon. What do I do? What do I say? What do I not say? How to proceed?

I told her I thought she was beautiful. She said I was just saying that because I am her mom. I told her that what she was feeling was common, that many people struggle with accepting who they are and how they look, including myself. She said she didn't believe me. I told her that nobody is perfect, and that our imperfections are actually what make us most beautiful, both inside and out. She said she didn't understand.

So I just shut up and held her. After awhile, she mumbled into my neck, "I don't want to leave here."

I thought she meant that she didn't want to leave our apartment, because we are moving in three days. But she clarified that she meant "here" literally, as in where she was at that exact moment.

"When I am in your arms, I feel safe. Your skin is warm and I can feel your heart beating and I know that you love me no matter what. I wish I could always be with you, and then I would never be scared."

I leaned down and whispered in her ear, "Emma, what you just said was beautiful. That is beauty. Love is beauty. All the rest of it - the hair, the face, the clothes - those are just distractions. Please don't let yourself get distracted."

She took this in, looked into my eyes, and said, "Okay. I think I understand, Mommy. That I understand."

I held her for a bit more before Sophie got tired of sharing me and wiggled her way in between us. I watched Emma resume cleaning her room, still struck dumb by the most mature and profound conversation I have ever had with my daughter. Then I prayed that the next time she feels unworthy - whether it be five minutes, hours, days, months, or years from now (oh please god, let it be years...can it please be years?) - she will remember the safety of my arms as she navigates the twisty road of self-doubt and self-loathing. Because honestly, as much as the knowledge terrifies me, I know that a safe place to fall is the only true and tangible thing I have to offer her. The rest she must do on her own. And I think she knows it too...which is a pretty shitty lesson to learn at eight years old.