The Face She Couldn’t Love

I don’t know how to write this without sounding dramatic. But it’s the truth. It’s very hard to love yourself when your own mum makes it clear she doesn’t like how you look. Not always in loud, obvious insults. Sometimes it’s in the comments. The comparisons. The little reminders disguised as observations. Because I look like him. My dad. The man she divorced years ago. And somehow, without choosing it, without asking for it, I became a reminder.

I didn’t choose this face. I didn’t choose these features. The shape of my nose. The way my eyes sit. The expressions I make when I’m thinking. But I’ve grown up feeling like my reflection carries someone else’s story. And when the person who gave you life reacts to your face like it’s something uncomfortable - something that stirs up resentment - it does something to you. It settles deep.

But it’s not just my face. I’m built like her. I have her shape. Her body type. Her frame. And she makes comments about that too. About how I “get that” from her. About how unfortunate it is. About how I have her hips, her build, her proportions. There’s a particular sting in hearing someone criticise the very things you inherited from them - as if your body is a mistake passed down. As if your shape is something to apologise for. And I can’t help but think: if she is unhappy with her own body, how can she ever be happy with mine? If she looks at herself with disappointment, of course she’ll struggle to look at me differently. But understanding that doesn’t make it hurt less.

Sometimes it feels like I can’t win. My face reminds her of my dad. My body reminds her of herself. So where do I exist - just as me? Where is the version of me that isn’t tied to their divorce, or her insecurities, or his memory? Because when she speaks about what I “got from him” and what I “got from her,” it’s rarely neutral. It’s framed as unfortunate. Unlucky. Something I’m stuck with. And when those words come from your own mother, they don’t just bounce off. They root.

It’s hard to explain what that does to your self-image. Because it’s not just about beauty. It’s about belonging. It’s about feeling fully accepted in the body you live in. When your own mum comments on your appearance - your face, your shape, your weight, your build - it doesn’t feel like casual conversation. It feels like confirmation. Confirmation that you are not quite right. That you are a collection of disappointments. Half him. Half her. Fully inconvenient.

There are days I look in the mirror and I don’t just see myself. I hear her voice. I hear the reminders of what I inherited. I anticipate the critique before it’s even spoken. And slowly, without realising, I learned to criticise myself first. To get there before she could. To stand in front of the mirror and pick myself apart so it wouldn’t hurt as much when someone else did. But it still hurts.

The hardest part? I love her. And I know she carries her own wounds. I know she sees her body through years of comparison, insecurity, maybe even shame. I know she sees my dad through unresolved pain. But I am not the battlefield for either of those things. I am not a symbol of their marriage. I am not an extension of her self-hatred. I am not a walking reminder of what went wrong. I am her daughter. And sometimes that reality feels heavy.

It’s confusing to crave approval from the same person whose words make you question yourself. It’s confusing to want to feel beautiful when the person who shaped your idea of beauty keeps highlighting what’s “wrong.” It makes you wonder: If I looked different, would she soften?  If I had a different body, would she stop pointing out what I inherited?  If I didn’t resemble him, would she look at me differently? I don’t know.

What I do know is this: I did not choose to look like my dad. I did not choose to have her body shape. And neither of those things make me unfortunate. His mistakes are not etched into my face. Her insecurities are not carved into my hips. Their history is not my identity. I am not a reminder. I am not a regret. I am not an unfortunate mix of two people who couldn’t make it work. I am my own person.

I don’t fully love what I see yet. That would be dishonest. But I am trying to stop hating it. I am trying to separate my reflection from their pain. I am trying to see my face as mine. My body as mine. Not something to apologise for. Because I cannot spend my life at war with a body that carries me every single day. And maybe healing begins here: By refusing to inherit shame along with genetics. By choosing to believe that I am not unfortunate. By looking in the mirror and slowly, gently, learning to see me - not him, not her, not their story. Just me. And maybe one day, that will feel enough.