We sit and contemplate on all were worth. The curves on our lips. The birthmark on my wrist. How we never get our hair to stay in the right place.
I always said I never wanted to be one of those girls. The ones who find worth in other people’s worth. The ones who value themselves on those hinted remarks that men give them.
We all want to be our altered egos. Women of divinity, of strength, of beauty. We strive, from the little girls we once were, to take on the world with our own sole worth.
But worth has nothing against instilled feelings. We look at our mothers, our grandmothers. The females who helped shape the thoughts you write with your pen and paper. We look to them and wonder, “where do they get there worth?”
From watching my mother in the mirror, who laced dresses and subtle heels. She was a goddess, behind closed doors.
She derived her worth from my father, who was one of a lack of words. She derived her beauty by comparing every inch to her form, to the women beside her at dinners. She never once said she was beautiful.
Where did we get our worth from as children? When did we look in mirrors and contemplate?
As a young girl, my memories of looking in the mirror were brief and sporadic. My long curly, frizzy hair would entangle my neck and I would pretend to be Rapunzel for the night.
When did we lose it? Our worth.
We look to our mothers, and their mothers, who embellish in their wounds and scars from the past. They were never told they were beautiful as a girl. So they went on, man by man, escaping into this so called world of worth. A world where a man could unmask your beauty by simply a touch. A world where a man’s words could unwrap all your years of doubt. We look to these figures as our means of finding that acceptance. To finding our beauty.
To finding our worth.
I have always wanted to imitate your being. My goddess, I yearn to be just like you.
But I won’t follow your steps of worth.
See I refuse to find my worth in a man’s touch. I can pass on the side comments walking down the street.
I can ignore the figures we see on TV. I can even ignore the fact that dad has never told me I was beautiful. I can and I will. My worth will not be found on the tips of a mans tongue but rather at the tip of my fingers as I write this letter.
I turn my back on the centuries of women who had no other way of finding their worth. I make my own worth.
Love, your daughter.
Worth comes from the feeling of accomplishment, the aspiration to move on even when your legs are stuck, the attitude towards the world. Worth is that little moment when you simply ignore everything this world has taught you about beauty. Worth is not found in a magazine or your makeup bag. You cannot find it in your average clothing store or at a summer party. Worth comes from the souls you wrap yourselves around. The kind of souls, who look passed all the flaws and cover ups.
Mother, I hope you find worth in your children, who glimpse upon you day by day in your true self. And I hope I catch my worth, my true self, before a man does. Because that is all worth is. Your true self.