Prompt – Something you secretly liked about how you looked.
I spent most of my childhood avoiding pissing people off and staying small and out of the way, and this included staying out of the way of myself. After Alaska, mirrors were no longer friends as I was now “husky,” as the adults called it. I wanted to disappear inside my body that seemingly refused to cooperate. My carrot top red hair walked into the room before I did. Adults called it distinctive. Kids made fun of that distinction. Still, if I am being honest, I secretly liked my hair, just not the color.
It was thick and styled well. There was no strange cowlick that other kids had to use water, gel, and frustration to tame. My hair always cooperated. It feathered and fell into place without much effort, the kind of easy that felt unfair compared to how hard everything else seemed. I complained about the color, but damn, at least it had possibility. Even under certain light it shifted, less fire and more copper, almost calm. My hair belonged to me and not to the people doing the teasing. That realization felt like a small act of rebellion, the kind that stayed hidden in plain sight with a subtle middle finger to all. I hated the attention of my carrot top, but I still appreciated the way my hair moved when I turned my head. That contradiction lived quietly inside me, a private agreement that I would never admit out loud.
My nose was also a feature I secretly liked, but for a different reason. It was not the sharp line and hard angle of my father’s nose. My nose curved differently. There was no harsh slope, no rigid echo of authority staring back at me from the mirror. As a tween and teen, the mirror confirmed that I was not a replica of my father. I was an edit. Hope lived in that small difference. Liking my nose meant I did not have to inherit everything. I could carry pieces forward and leave others behind. That thought stayed with me longer than any insult about my hair ever did.
There were moments when I stood longer than necessary in front of a mirror, dissecting my reflection. I would pretend to adjust something that did not need fixing, knowing I was really searching for proof that I belonged, if nowhere else, at least to myself. I did not feel confident about who I was, but I was damn sure curious about who I was not becoming. Maybe that was the beginning of rebellion; not loud or reckless, just a slow refusal to disappear. Even when I tried to stay small, parts of me kept stepping forward first, red hair and all, as if they already understood what I was still learning; that becoming someone new does not begin with change, it begins with noticing the pieces that were quietly mine all along.
Muddled Soma 