The mirror reflected a face Valerie Monroe could love—her own.

My mother will vociferously disagree, and I am happy to let her, but: I am not a beautiful woman. I won't bother to bore you with the details, though I can give you an idea of what I mean. Recently I had the experience of being photographed next to the model Iman, arguably one of the most gorgeous women in the world and certainly the most gorgeous woman who has ever stood next to me in a picture. When a friend kindly (or unkindly, I'm not sure) sent me a print, I was struck by how different we looked. We're about the same size, she and I, not too far apart in age, and it was a close shot of the two of us talking, face-to-face. As I stared at the photo, I saw two flowers: Iman, an exquisite hothouse orchid, her exotic beauty in full, outrageous bloom; and me, a parking-lot daisy, still standing, firm but a little faded, late on a warm afternoon. I got a slightly disappointed feeling, looking at that photo, like the feeling you might get opening an unexpected bouquet to discover that the flowers are a day old. So I went over to the mirror to check in with myself. I took a good, long look. Then, "Hi, sweetie," I said. I felt enormously better. Because even though there are many women in the world much more beautiful than I, I love my face.

It wasn't always so. If you had asked me 20 years ago what I thought of my face, I would've said, "It's fine," in the same way you answer someone you don't know very well who asks how you are. Nothing to complain about. But the whole truth was, when I looked in the mirror, I saw someone who was most of all not-quite-as-pretty-as.

Then I got married, and then my husband began to have some serious problems that resulted in both of us reexamining our lives. For several years I worked hard with a therapist to come to an understanding about how I had grown into the person I was, and how I might recapture the parts of myself that I had once loved and lost.

One day, after I was being particularly self-critical, my therapist suggested that I spend some time—as much as I could take—looking in the mirror, not the usual way, but looking into my eyes in the way I might look into the eyes of someone I cared deeply about. Have you ever tried this? It isn't easy. It feels creepy at first, as if you're putting the make on yourself. But I diligently watched as I laughed (out of nervousness). I got teary-eyed (fear, I think). And then I saw myself. Standing at the mirror, looking into my own eyes, I finally saw the human being who looked out of them.

I recognized her, of course. Because I knew her intimately, knew everything about her struggles and her achievements, her aspirations and her disappointments, because I knew that she was, above all, well-intentioned and kind, I loved her. And seeing her face—my face—like that of a beloved friend's, always reminds me of that.