The story etched in my face

When I look at my face in the mirror, I don’t just see myself. I see pieces of my family stitched into every feature. I see a map of where I come from, a collection of stories that belong not only to me but to my ancestry. Every feature...every line...every mole carries with it a memory...a resemblance...a thread of connection that ties me to the people who came before me.

As a child, I was fascinated by my mother’s mole. I used to act as if I could pluck it out and stick it on my own face, wishing it belonged to me. Years later during my mid to late teens...almost magically...I grew the very same mole in the very same spot. It felt like life’s way of whispering 'you are her daughter, through and through." Sometimes I catch myself touching it without realizing…like I’m checking that I really got what I once wished for. Like believing hard enough actually left a mark.

Not all features were so easy to love. I once hated the line etched across my cheek. It felt like a flaw, something that shadowed my face every morning when I woke up swollen or when I lost a little weight or even when I gained it. But then I noticed my youngest cousin had the exact same line in the exact same place. I couldn’t help grinning. Suddenly, what I once disliked transformed into something I cherished. It wasn’t just a mark now, it was a family bond.

The same happened with my hooded eyes. For so long I thought they weighed me down...that I couldn’t do any eye makeup because what was the use? Until I realized...this was the gaze of Panjsher, a trait carried by many from where I come from. Now, when I look at them, I see my roots staring back at me.

And my eyes...just like my paternal grandmother’s...the ones that disappear when I smile or laugh, vanishing completely. Eyes that close into joy. It feels like an inheritance of happiness, passed down quietly through generations.

Their color, too, carries a secret. In the shade they are brown, deep and calm...but in the sun they shift...turning into a warm honey color that catches the light and sparkles softly. It’s as if my eyes recognise the sun or respond to it with familiarity.

Other features are quieter but just as meaningful. The shape of my lips and the curve of my cheekbones are my mother’s. My nose mirrors my father’s, just as my light brown hair echoes his from younger days.

Even beyond my face, there are marks that connect me to my family. Two moles on the back of my neck like my maternal uncles... a mole on the sole of my foot like my aunt’s, the green purple veins on my hands and arms and even across my body, like my maternal grandmother’s, the freckles slowly blooming on my neck, just like my mother’s as she aged.

And then there are my teeth and the gaps between them. For most of my childhood, they felt like something to fix yet they never stopped me from smiling too wide. With time I realized they, too, are part of me...familiar, inherited. They make my smile imperfect in the most human way, creating a smile that doesn’t ask for permission. It arrives before I can stop it…loud, wide, unapologetic.

There are also my long nails I’ve never had to grow...always long on their own. My long fingers too, carrying the same quiet elegance, the same familiar shape. These too are part of the story. As if my hands were always meant to carry something precious.

It’s all so raw, so unpolished and that’s exactly why I love it. My face is not flawless in the way magazines might define beauty (or they might) but it is flawless in a deeper sense...it is authentically mine. They are what I lovingly call my stamps of heritage...marks that prove I carry so much with me and within me.

It carries my mother and father, my uncles and aunts, my grandparents and ancestors. Every feature is both personal and shared, individual yet collective.

I never saw imperfections...I just wished they looked differently. But now I see stories. I see heritage. I see love.

My face is not just a reflection...it is a living archive of the people who made me.
I love my face...not just for how it looks but for everything it carries.
Every line, every mole, every smile I carry...I wouldn’t trade a thing.