I was brushing my teeth last night, leaning over the sink and examining my pores in the mirror, when I noticed something. It was so shocking, so unexpected, that I actually dropped my toothbrush and just stood there, staring at my reflection. I blinked. And then I said it out loud because an important truth like this should never be kept inside: “I am a pretty girl.”

I’ve been waiting to feel pretty my whole life. I always knew I would someday, I’ve always had the impression that my body is like a fine wine, or a particularly smelly cheese: I just get better with age. I remember perching on the bathroom counter at fourteen, feet in the empty sink basin and knees drawn up to my chest, sobbing deep, nauseating, gut wrenching sobs. I hated my body, I hated my face, I hated my hair, I hated myself. Because at a time in a young person’s life when the only thing that matters is belonging to the herd, I didn’t. And I felt like I never would. “You’re gross,” I would snarl at my reflection. “You’re disgusting and ugly. No one loves you and no one ever will.” It hurt to feel those things, to look into the black hole of my future and imagine feeling that way forever. But somewhere, deep inside, I didn’t really believe it. There was something more than hope, something stronger, that told me things would be different someday. That I would belong and be loved and be okay. I figured I would wake up on my fortieth birthday and suddenly feel beautiful. After all, aren’t the women who have survived the terror of their teens, the uncertainty of their twenties, and the confusion of their thirties the most stunning creatures you’ve ever seen? I couldn’t wait to turn forty and it shone like a beacon in my future, this wonderful thing I was waiting for. I settled down to let the years pass.

So what changed? What has made me realize, at the tender and uncertain age of twenty-four, that I am a pretty girl? After all, I still don’t run with the herd. I still feel fundamentally different from my peers, and I still have that paranoid and sadistic little voice whispering in my ear that everyone in the world has a secret key to life- and they all get together on the second Monday of every month to figure out ways to keep me from getting a copy. But what I now believe, what I know to be true, is that it takes guts to love who you are and show your real self to the world. It takes gumption. It takes moxie. And all of that courage is beautiful. My days now are spent embracing who I am, rejecting those familiar negative thoughts and whispers. I draw strength from others around me and I take a heaping spoonful of bravery with each of my meals. It’s as important to my emotional survival as calcium is to my bones; without it I grow brittle and weak and someday I will break.

When I met Anne Lamott at her book signing a few months ago, I asked her how I could be as beautiful as she is when I grow up. “Sunscreen,” she told me. “Lots and lots of sunscreen.” But I disagree. It’s not a wrinkle-free face or shoulders clear of sunspots that determines a woman’s loveliness. It’s the knowledge that who she is is special and wonderful. It’s holding on to the parts of herself that are different and unique and knowing that the world would be missing something important if she weren’t there. This is different, I think, from having an over-inflated ego. It’s not having so much pride that your head won’t fit through doorways. It’s valuing who you are.

I do value myself now. And I love, I am amazed, that catching my reflection in the mirror no longer reduces me to a desperate, weepy mess. It makes me smile.