Before I begin, I believe I should make one thing clear: I am not what you may refer to as a "Southern belle."

I was born in Alabama and raised (mostly) in Texas under a halo of bluebonnets with not one, not two, but three adoring grandmothers, several aunties, and a dizzying number of cousins who epitomized Southern grace and elegance. I live in a family of beautiful people, though I regretfully admit that whilst I inherited my mama’s old Southern taste (and occasionally her accent), I won’t be wearing any sashes that read “Miss Alabama,” “Miss Texas,” or even “Miss Oklahoma” anytime soon. Furthermore, if I am to truly embrace my self-imposed identity as an "old soul," then I must also recognize that I am quickly becoming a spinster, and have yet to receive a single marriage proposal from a gentleman caller. C’est la vie.

No, I am not a Southern belle. I don’t even fit the status of Dixie darlin’ at the rate I’m going. I don’t have any fancy ball gowns, have no dowry prepared, and I’ve never been given a debut. I did pose once with a feather boa and it was acutely uncomfortable. I’m afraid I do not have the appropriate body type for any fabric to bow that low.

So what’s to be done? Shall I remain a maid for the remainder of my lifetime, wistfully sipping tea as I stare out a frost-covered window, searching for my youth? Doubtful. You see, a lesson best learned is one which makes it easier to look in the mirror. I’ve spent most of my life wishing for a more glamorous existence. I’ve wanted to be prettier, wealthier, skinnier, more talented, etc. Unfortunately, this is not a Disney movie and I am not going to turn into Lily James in time for any ball. I suppose this is the part where I’m expected to say, “You’re beautiful just the way you are because true beauty is always on the inside!” Although, I did just say this wasn’t a Disney movie … and that’s the entire plot of “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” (1996).

The unfortunate truth is most people don’t buy that little memento anymore. I’m not implying that they don’t believe it on some level, people do in fact have the capacity to be kind sometimes, but not to themselves -- never to themselves. Sometimes it simply isn’t enough that my mother thinks I’m beautiful or talented. Sometimes I think it better to maintain an air of cynicism as a means of protection -- because I am surrounded by remarkable people and sometimes it’s too much seeing everything I want to be in their faces. This is the reason denial becomes our ultimate companion. It is easier to deny everyone who dares to try and wipe that mirror clean for us, easier to adopt a personality of “average” or “ordinary” when others have the gall to believe we are actually extraordinary.

Why? Because we’re scared that we aren’t good enough. These components of our identities are what make us individuals, make us extraordinary, but there’s always the chance we won’t live up to the expectations of those wonderful people, the ones who try and remind us that we don’t need the glitz and the glam. I spent years and years wanting to be someone specific: a Southern belle, a lady with silky hair and a smile warmer than the Texas heat. But that isn’t me. And despite everything, I’m still afraid that the individual I’ve been groomed to be will not be enough for some people. And perhaps it won’t be enough for everyone. That isn’t what’s important, though.

So what is important? Well, I like to write. That’s extraordinary.

You’re a cheerleader? That’s extraordinary.

You’re a hard-core gamer? That’s extraordinary.

You’re raising two beautiful children? That’s extraordinary.

I may not be a Southern belle, but I am Southern and I have a life to live, and that’s enough for me for now.

And maybe, just maybe, there will come a day where it’s enough for the girl in the mirror, too.