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Blessed I am to have this face. This beautiful, pudgy and friendly face. This face is my greatest asset, though it is not mine.
No, no, no. This face doesn't belong to me, no. This is the face belonging to someone else, someone before me. This is the face that belonged to my beautiful cherry-blonde mother. And as much as I love her, I wish this face could just be mine.
People tell me, “You look just like her.” Or, “I sit here and all I see is her.” For a while, these seemed like heartfelt comments. But as I got older, I started to feel as if these people don't even see me because of this face that is not mine.
It seems as if my generation is always overshadowed by the accomplishments of the people before us. By the people who have owned these faces before us.
No, no, no. This face is not mine. It may be connected to me, but I feel as though many people don't connect it to me. They see the memories that this person who the face belonged to made with them, the feelings she brought them. Not me. Never me.
Studies show that the nose is the most common facial feature passed on to a person’s children, but I’ve inherited more than that. I’ve inherited her whole face. It was never mine.
I was never me.
It’s been a struggle, yes, but the struggle is also a start. It reminds me of the quote from author Enid Blyton “I think people make their own faces, as they grow.”
Here’s to the day where it can be our face, and not just hers.
