I often wonder. As I sit in front of the mirror, I see what others might see—a crooked nose and a jaw that doesn’t quite align the way most dogs’ jaws do. I remember the first time I caught my reflection, my little heart sank. I looked different, and in a world where other dogs prance around with their perfect faces and confident stares, I couldn’t help but feel like I didn’t belong.
When I was born, my mom was the first to shower me with love. She didn’t care about my misaligned nose or the way my jaw hung awkwardly. To her, I was perfect, just the way I was. She would stroke my fur gently and say, “You’re not ugly, sweetheart. You’re special.” Her words filled me with warmth, but I always wondered—was it true? Did she really see me as beautiful, or was she just trying to make me feel better?
As I grew older, I noticed the way others looked at me. The pity in their eyes. Some people wouldn’t even come close; they’d whisper to one another, their glances full of discomfort. And then there were the others—the kind who would flinch or turn away when they saw me. It hurt more than I could express, like a sharp tug at my heart. I tried to ignore it, but every time it happened, the question grew louder in my mind: “Am I ugly?”
But every night, when I’d return home to my mom, she would hug me tight, as if to shield me from the world. She’d look into my eyes with so much love that, for a brief moment, I believed her words. I wasn’t ugly. I was her dog, her loyal companion, and that was enough. But outside, away from her gentle embrace, the world wasn’t so kind.
One day, a group of kids passed by while I was playing in the yard. I remember how they pointed and laughed, one of them calling me names I didn’t quite understand, but I knew they weren’t good. Their laughter echoed in my ears, and I rushed back inside, hiding under my favorite blanket, trying to make myself disappear. That day, I asked my mom the question again: “Mom, am I ugly?” She smiled at me, tears brimming in her eyes, and whispered, “You are the most beautiful soul I have ever known.”
Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling. I kept wondering what was wrong with me. Why couldn’t I look like the other dogs who seemed to have it all? Their straight noses, perfect jaws, and proud stances—they seemed so confident, while I hid in the shadows, afraid of being seen. The question haunted me, even though my mom’s love never wavered.
One evening, as the sun began to set, a strange thing happened. A little girl, maybe about six or seven years old, walked by our house. She had big, curious eyes and a soft, sweet smile. She saw me sitting by the window, and instead of looking away like most people did, she came closer. At first, I was scared. I expected her to react the way others had—maybe laugh or point out my differences. But she didn’t.
She knelt down by the window and simply looked at me. Her gaze wasn’t filled with pity or judgment—it was warm and kind. She reached out her hand through the fence, and though I was nervous, I slowly made my way over to her. When I finally got close, she smiled even bigger and said, “You’re beautiful.”
For the first time in my life, I believed it. This little girl didn’t know me, didn’t have to love me like my mom did, but she saw something in me that no one else ever had. In that moment, her words echoed what my mom had always told me: “You’re not ugly. You’re special.” And somehow, coming from a stranger, it felt more real.
From that day on, something changed in me. I still had my crooked nose and misaligned jaw, but I carried myself differently. I no longer tried to hide when people passed by. I started to feel proud of who I was—quirks and all. I realized that beauty wasn’t about having a perfect face or fitting into a mold. It was about kindness, love, and the light you bring into the world. My mom had always known that, and now, so did I.
So, the next time I look into the mirror, I won’t ask myself if I’m ugly. Instead, I’ll see the love my mom has always seen, and I’ll remember the little girl who showed me that sometimes, it’s our imperfections that make us truly beautiful. Because after all, beauty is about so much more than what meets the eye.
And I am beautiful—just as I am.
