“Elena! Would you come help me with these?” Helen, one of my favorite coworkers called. I looked up to see her struggling with a slowly tipping pile of posters. 

“Sure!” I answered, jumping up and hurrying over to her. I took the top half of the posters from her stack and set them on a table. “What are these?”

Helen picked one up to show me. “From the shoot on Friday. The one for the new designs,” she explained. On the poster were two models; one wearing a floral print bikini and the other a short, fitted sundress. Across the top was our brand name, Kahakai. For some reason, the sight of it made my stomach turn. 

That was when I was brought back to seventh grade, standing in the Windward Mall in front of a poster with a woman wearing a similar bikini. Seventh grade me stared at her, suddenly aware that I didn’t look like that woman. Seventh grade me grew uncomfortable. I was truly self conscious of myself for the first time. 

Later that day, I had gone home with my mom with a bag full of clothes that I tried on again as soon as I got to my room. All of a sudden I was noticing things: how my hair didn’t really behave, how I had little bumps on my skin along my hairline, how my skin wasn’t really tan. My mother had raised me to believe that I was beautiful, and that everyone around me was beautiful, but if we were all beautiful were any of us really beautiful? 

Fast forward to ninth grade; I was invited to my first party. A beach party. A few of my friends had come over to get ready with me, and I was trying on different bikinis. However, the more I stared at myself in them the more I didn’t like them. The more I stared, the more I noticed my little flaws. And the more I stared, the more I wanted to rip the bikini off and hide behind a huge sweatshirt. People were going to judge me because I didn’t look like that woman in the poster. I couldn’t go to the party—I couldn’t. 

“Elena?” Alani, one of my closest friends, asked quietly. She noticed the tears that were brimming my eyes before I did. “What’s wrong?”

”What? Nothing,” I answered. Unfortunately, my voice broke as I said it, and Karina and Maya hurried over. 

“Elena? Are you okay?” Karina piped in. 

“Yes!” I said, trying to sound convincing. I was not about to confess my insecurities to these girls. Not with their perfect bodies and skin and hair. They would only pity me; they might even judge me. “Crap,” I muttered. “Crying makes my skin all blotchy.” 

“Don’t worry!” Maya said, darting away and returning with her makeup bag. “You’re basically my shade!” She pulled several products from her bag, and within minutes she had covered up the blotches on my skin, leaving it looking nearer to perfect than it ever had. 

I looked at the transformation in awe. With just a little makeup I looked so much better. I smiled. “Thank you, Maya,” 

“Of course!” she replied, beaming. “Are we ready to leave now?” 

I nodded, and the four of us shouted goodbyes to my mom and started walking to the beach. 

Later that night, I was sitting on the sand a few yards away from the rest of the party watching the water, when a boy came up to me. I recognized him from my English class. His name was Peter Kekoa. He was tall, with curly brown hair and brown eyes. At this moment, he was rather tipsy. 

“Whoareyou?” he asked, his words slurring together from whatever he had been drinking. 

“Elena,” I answered. “We have English together,”

”English?” He asked, sitting down beside me. 

“Yes,” 

“Whatayou doing over here?” 

I shrugged. “Taking a minute,” His drunken state made me more confident; his vulnerability gave me strength. 

He stared at me, his eyes unfocused. “Why is your skin so clear?” He asked. 

I blushed happily. “I don’t know,” I said. 

After that night, I started wearing makeup to school. Now that Peter had seen me with it on, I couldn’t let him see me without it or he would know it was a facade. I wore it everyday, sometimes adding something new that made my face look better. What was the harm?

Two years later, I was lying in bed, tears pouring down my face. I felt like the memory of the poster was haunting me; it was in my dreams. I felt it judging me when I looked in the mirror. I wore makeup to hide they blotches and tear stains on my face, piling it on in hopes that I would forget what I really looked like. 

My stomach ached with hunger, but I ignored it. I didn’t need to eat. I wasn’t hungry. I abhorred food. 

My face flushed with shame as I thought of how, just moments earlier, I had sat crouched on the floor, forcing myself to throw up to get rid of all traces of food from my body. I could no longer eat in front of people; food honestly scared me. 

Days passed. 

Weeks.

Months. 

A year. 

I was lying in a hospital bed. I felt so weak I couldn’t so much as raise my head. I had gotten so thin, but it was never enough. 

“Elena?” I heard my mother’s soft, hopeful voice. “Are you awake?” I barely managed a nod, and she rushed to my side. She had been crying. “Oh, Elena,” she whispered. “Why are you doing this, my beautiful girl?” 

“Mom,” I whimpered, my eyes watering. 

“Elena, understand me,” she pleaded. “You are the product of thousands of generations of people who were so in love they wanted to create something to represent their love. You need to love yourself the same way that they would. The same way that I do,” she was crying now. “Please don’t do this anymore, Elena,”

I nodded, tears pouring down my face. 

I stared down at the Kahakai poster. It didn’t scare me anymore. The road I had traveled on my way to recovery had been rough, but I would never let myself fall down that path again. Now I could appreciate the beauty of others without comparing it to my own.

“It looks great,” I said, handing it back to Helen.