( I’m going to love myself this month and y’all are going to love me with me🤣✋🏾.. that being said)

Growing up, my mom always said she could tell how I was feeling by looking into my eyes. And that I’ve come to believe 

If I had done something wrong, told a lie, committed a sin, or even if I was especially happy, she’d look at me and say, “Your eyes have changed color.”

She believed my eyes gave me away.

And, somehow, they always seemed to.

Whenever something was wrong, even if she couldn’t name it, she knew. At least on the days she looked into my eyes.

Sometimes she didn’t.

Sometimes, I think she simply chose to turn a blind eye.

But on the days when it mattered, she would look at me, pause for a moment, and know something wasn’t right. Then she’d do what she had to do.

As a child, I started hiding my eyes from her.

They always betrayed me whenever I’d done something wrong, and after being punished enough times, I convinced myself that whenever my mother looked into them, she saw only the bad things I’d done or the bad thoughts I’d had.

Then there were the moments that frightened me.

She would look at me and say, “Don’t be depressed. Don’t try to kill yourself,” before launching into one of her pep talks.

I used to wonder how she knew.

Maybe God whispered it to her.

Maybe He told her every time I was unhappy or every time I had done something wrong.

But there were other days, days when I cried alone in my room, carrying things too heavy to say out loud and God didn’t tell her.

At least, that was what I believed.

As I got older, I realized something.

It wasn’t that my mother possessed some mysterious gift.

My eyes are simply expressive.

People would tell me they were beautiful.

Then, almost in the same breath, they’d tell me I looked sad.

For a long time, I thought they meant my face.

I didn’t realize they meant my eyes.

It wasn’t until I watched old videos of myself or caught my reflection in the mirror that I noticed it too. Whether I was laughing or crying, something about my eyes always changed before the rest of me did.

I’ve heard them described in countless ways.

Soft.

Trusting.

Gentle.

Bewitching.

Seductive.

evil.

Beautiful.

sad.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped wondering how my mother knew.

I learned to read my own eyes too.

They are mirrors.

Not because they reflect my appearance, but because they reflect what I carry.

Whatever I feel eventually finds its way into them.

I like my eyes.

I didn’t always.

But I do now.

I never realized how brown they really were. I always thought they were almost black, but when I looked closely, I discovered they were simply a rich, warm brown.

When guilt weighs on me, they seem darker.

When I’m happy, they seem lighter.

When I first wake up, they shine.

When I’m lost in thought, they grow quiet.

Even the white of my eyes gives me away. Tears stain it red and yellow until my irises seem darker and my pupils larger.

I like my eyes, even though they don’t see very well.

I need glasses.

One eye slips in and out of focus, reminding me that seeing isn’t always as simple as opening them.

I like my eyes even though they’ve cried.

I like my eyes even though they’ve seen more than I wish they had.

They’ve watched moments my mind insists on replaying until they hurt all over again.

But they’ve also seen joy.

They’ve seen people I love.

They’ve seen sunsets, books, strangers who became friends, and versions of me I never thought I’d become.

When I look in the mirror now, I don’t just see my eyes.

I see everything they’ve carried.

And somehow, despite all of it, they still shine.

Most of all, I like my eyes because when I look ahead, they still let me see a future.