You know that thing you do, the thing where you cling tight to something about yourself and assume it exists for others. Usually it’s something awful, like you are unattractive or inferior. Maybe you’re on the other side and you know you are brilliant and trust everyone else thinks the same. As I inch closer to being decades away from so many things—hurts, failures, assholes*, and the naive side of lessons, I see that all too often I don’t see me. Through the veil of a cloudy day and the distance between camera and subject, I saw me. Arms wrapped securely around what I love, eyes searching, tentative yet purposeful, at once, delicate and powerful. There are no pores to judge, no lines to…