When I used to give Pretty Smart talks in schools –  designed to challenge unrealistic beauty standards in advertising and social media  – I would put up a selfie of a 13-year-old girl and ask the students to come up with a comment that was not about appearance. Usually, there was silence.  

Someone would make a joke, “Nice iPhone.” 

Someone else would say, “Nice towel rail.” (The girl was in the bathroom).  

Then I would encourage them to try harder. Imagine the girl was their friend, maybe they played football with her. Was there anything else they could say to her about this selfie? Slowly, they would get it. 

“You’re a legend on the soccer field.” 

“Thank you for being my friend.” 

“You crack me up.” 

I encouraged them to write comments on social media about who people are rather than what they look like. Because that’s what people see when they see us.  

I know this in my bones, but when I saw a recent photo of myself, my first thought was one of admonishment: ‘Why didn’t I brush my hair?’ My second thought was that I looked tired (I was tired). Then I went to my old man’s ear, peeking out like a piece of bacon through my messy hair. And I had that one-sided Muldoon smile again. My fifth thought was something I have said to myself many times: ‘Hush, inner critic. Enough with your opinions.’ 

We look at ourselves through the eyes of others. We imagine people we know – and don’t know – scrutinising our appearance, hunting for flaws, signs of asymmetry, ageing, moods. But all they usually think when they see us is, ‘There she (he/they) is!’  

People who love us see all of us, yet we’ve learned to compartmentalise ourselves. 

So, I looked at my photo again and smiled at my reflection. 

I saw a self-identifying woman who was free to vote, marry, divorce, marry again and make decisions – a woman who has sovereignty over her own body. 

I saw a mother who has managed to raise two children and keep them alive. 

I saw a partner who is grateful (most days) to share her life with someone. 

I saw a Scottish-Irish-Danish-Welsh-New Zealander who knows some stuff. She’s been through some stuff. And she’s still here. 

I saw a person who has life inside her. She may be tired, but she’s very much alive.  

I saw a sister, a friend, an aunt and a workmate who is who she is because of the people around her. 

When we see ourselves, we often forget to acknowledge where and who we came from. But when we do, it flips any judgement on its head. 

Once, after a Pretty Smart talk in the South Island here in New Zealand, a middle school girl approached me and said kids teased her for having big feet. I asked her whether any other women in her family had big feet and she said both her mother and grandmother did.  

“Tell me about your grandmother,” I said.  

The girl told me her grandmother had never followed the rules. Instead of settling down when expected, she left Aotearoa and set off on her own. She travelled solo, chased adventure and took on unconventional jobs. She was kind and rebellious. She was a trailblazer. 

I looked at the girl and said, “You have your grandmother’s feet. Those feet that walked into other countries, walked away from expectations and found a unique path. What amazing feet to have.” 

I asked whether she could change the dialogue in her head next time somebody teased her for having big feet.  

She nodded: “I’ll think of Grandma.” 

That’s it, I said. “Try smiling at your feet,” I told her. “They will lead you into many wonderful situations, places and experiences your grandma will be delighted with.” 

Reflecting on this, I looked at my photo again and I smiled. 

I looked at my old man’s ear peeking out and said, “Hello, Granddad.” 

I looked at my fading dark hair and said, “Hello, Grandma.” 

I looked at the soft creases around my eyes and said, “Hello, Mum, I see you too.” 

I looked at my green eyes and said, “Hello, Dad, thanks for the great hue.” 

I looked at the brightness in my face and said, “Hello, Brother, I miss you.” 

We don’t exist as separate body parts; we are an amalgamation of the people we came from. I would never judge how a family member looks – they look like themselves – so how dare I do it to myself? 

Once we see all the things that make up who we are, we no longer see an exterior to criticise or judge; we see the miracle and the beauty of ourselves.