Self-love is the best kind of love

https://www.flickr.com/photos/liveoncelivewild/32686269853/in/photolist-RNnFfM-9KCHhk-SQYQgF-b8ppRD-9KFw2u-9KFwCf-dRKA1W-9KCHBc-9KCHoc-9KFwhj-9KCHk6-9KCHqt-9KCHXe-9KFvYN-9KFwMA-9KFwxC-9KCHta-9KCH5P-9KCHQR-9KCJ7z-9KCJ3p-9KCH8x-9KFwsS-9KCHGP-9KFwos-9KFwvC-RNs5bt-gwmAC2-4YnKb1-gwmN7H-ijA39c-QDutCM-qu4nVM-g1EDcJ-mGqoS9-dNjrSA-5khRRR-j6wg5Z-QNcNhw-pHmBAC-6iakfA-6i6abK-6iakn9-6iajNm-wK9XpT-9xVtxH-QJqbSF-5928yr-hjvm97-doZFcm
Lady depicting wellness. Credits to www.liveoncelivewild.com (Flickr)

We are always waging wars against our own selves, no matter where we stand in life. On some days, as the worldly existence triggers us, we condemn our life-decisions and while on other days, we become the harbingers of peace and call it a truce. How exciting our life is.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/liveoncelivewild/32686269853/in/photolist-RNnFfM-9KCHhk-SQYQgF-b8ppRD-9KFw2u-9KFwCf-dRKA1W-9KCHBc-9KCHoc-9KFwhj-9KCHk6-9KCHqt-9KCHXe-9KFvYN-9KFwMA-9KFwxC-9KCHta-9KCH5P-9KCHQR-9KCJ7z-9KCJ3p-9KCH8x-9KFwsS-9KCHGP-9KFwos-9KFwvC-RNs5bt-gwmAC2-4YnKb1-gwmN7H-ijA39c-QDutCM-qu4nVM-g1EDcJ-mGqoS9-dNjrSA-5khRRR-j6wg5Z-QNcNhw-pHmBAC-6iakfA-6i6abK-6iakn9-6iajNm-wK9XpT-9xVtxH-QJqbSF-5928yr-hjvm97-doZFcm
Lady depicting wellness. Credits to www.liveoncelivewild.com (Flickr)

A random conversation with my 73-year-old neighbour made me realise that self-hatred plagues even the most experienced ones, those who have seen the world and know how that we are as significant as a speck of dust in this vast universe.

She began to narrate her bitter journey of life that was full of regrets about the choices she made and the chances she didn’t take. She told me about her flaws that included her once heavy, curly hair. When she expressed her opinion on it, I was in disbelief. Of course, she must be kidding right? How can she possibly hate something that everyone admired? Something that her husband loved the most about her? Heck, something that I dreamed of having! And then a realization hit me, Asha will never realise how beautiful her flaw is. Never. She’ll never look at her hair the way we did. Imagine thick, curly hair at 73. And she herself couldn’t see its beauty.

That day, when I went home, I did something that I usually avoided. I walked up to the mirror and stared hard at my reflection. I fixed my eyes on the mole that sat comfortably above the right corner of my lip.

Something that was a symbol of beauty for those who know me, they thought that it could attract anyone who laid his eyes on it. For me, it was simply gross, and just wanted to get rid of it. Laser treatment was the way to go. “How on Earth something so ugly appear beautiful to others?,” I used to think. But that evening was different. I was different, my feelings were different. My perspective had changed and I wanted to love my mole as much as I loved Asha’s hair. I wanted to accept it as mine before it was too late. And I did, the love came easy. So the war had ended, we were finally on the same side, my mole and I.