I smile now, and it is the same smile that I've smiled a million times before. Yet the me in the picture is yet another new me. Different from the me with the blemished skin, the unruly hair and the wire-framed spectacles. The me with the insecure smile, who didn't want to leave the house or meet other people's eyes. The girl then is still alive, but at the same time she is dead. I can no longer say I completely understand her; she who stumbled gracelessly along the path of growing up. She was always looking for acceptance, and although the me now no longer needs acceptance of the same kind, I am still looking for acceptance for her, as though it is something I must accomplish before moving on.
But what does acceptance truly mean? What does it entail?
Perhaps the acceptance she needs is acceptance from me.
