I have a tiny scar that is only visible in the summertime if I have a tan.

It’s just below my nose, right above my lip. I ran into the dishwasher when I was a baby — ripped my upper lip wide open.

I have a “strawberry” birthmark under my hairline on the back of my neck.

And I have a weird bump on my skull — right on the top — that friends and family affectionately tease me about and call my “horn.”

I’ve got freckles on my shoulders and face, and a very random freckle on my left hip bone.

I swing my left arm more when I run than I do my right.

I’m also the girl who loves to get lost in words, in miles, in rainstorms and coffee dates.

I’ve got perfect pitch, but the only person who regularly hears me sing is a little man who loves me to sing exactly the song he wants, rather than what I want to sing him.

It takes a lot for me me to get angry, but when I do, I never know whether to cry or scream or write or do all three.

I’m a klutz. I am not graceful. I climb on counters to reach things on the top shelf, and can never pour a cup of coffee without spilling some.

And those are just the things you can visibly see that make me who I am.

On this silly holiday, that was made up by some very clever advertising and marketing men, love yourself.

And all of your “flaws.”

You are the only person who has the unique sequence of things that make you who you are.

Old, worn-in floors are beautiful because of their imperfections. And the one thing I love about them most? They have survived.


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