I watch my 14-year old daughter stand in front of the mirror, bemoaning the barely-there circles under her eyes and the perceived thinness of her eyebrows. She works concealer under her eyes and darkens her eyebrows with I-don’t-even-know-what.
She was not born critiquing her looks. As a little girl, she danced around gleefully in the backyard, with sticky-from-a-popsicle hair, dirty, uneven fingernails, sporting a tutu and mismatched socks. She would smear makeup all over her face, not to conceal anything, but just for the fun of it. For the vibrant colors. For the artistry.
When did my daughter begin to doubt herself?
When did the self-doubt seep in? Was it because of too many glances in the mirror? Apps with too many filters? Too many subtle lies of perfection on TV? Fourteen years of passing comments that…