Emma hated mirrors.

Well, maybe "hate" was a bit strong. It was more a fraught distrust. From the moment she reached double digits, the mirror became a battleground. It reflected her ever-changing body: the unwelcome curves, the stubbornly straight hair, that nose that just wouldn't shrink despite desperate nighttime pleas to the fairy godmother she no longer believed in.

At seventeen, it didn't get easier. Prom season was a nightmare. Dress shopping should've been exciting, a glittery milestone marking the transition to adulthood. Instead, changing rooms became torture chambers, fluorescent light highlighting every perceived flaw. Emma's best friend, Cassie, with her effortless blonde beach waves and dancer's figure, could try on the entire rack. Emma would skulk in, grab a size too big in desperate hope, and retreat immediately.

That's how she ended up staring at herself in a hideous monstrosity her mom had declared "perfect."

"It's so flattering." Mom would beam, blind to her daughter's barely suppressed tears.

Flattering. Like a bulldozer. The dress was electric blue taffeta. It screamed "prom 1989" and made Emma want to scream back. But like always, she choked back her rebellion, plastering on a fake smile for the obligatory photos.

Prom night felt like one long act of self-betrayal. Even Cassie looked pityingly at her over the rim of her punch glass. Emma spent most of the evening glued to a chair near the snack table, nibbling sadly on veggie straws.

A few weeks later, the graduation announcements arrived in the mail. When Mom suggested framing her senior portrait, Emma couldn't take it.

"I look like a hippo. In a bad dress," she blurted.

Her parents exchanged worried glances. They were long accustomed to Emma's self-deprecation, but there was a sharp edge in her voice that afternoon.

"You're beautiful, honey," sighed her dad, the usual platitude delivered with a tinge of genuine concern.

That night, Emma locked herself in her room. Something had to change. Browsing online, she saw an ad for a summer camp focused on "body positivity and self-discovery." It felt like a lifeline tossed from the universe. She spent the rest of the evening meticulously crafting a plea to her parents.

Amazingly, they said yes.

Camp Cedar Ridge was nestled in a pine forest by a lake. Far from malls and fashion magazines, it felt like liberation. There were girls of all shapes and sizes, none of them looking in the mirror with the pained intensity Emma knew too well.

Workshops were a mixture of practical advice and deep reflection: nutrition for actual health, journaling, identifying and kicking negative self-talk to the curb. But the transformative part was the community. Emma shared stories over late-night campfires, gaining a vocabulary for the war she'd been waging on herself. Insecurity. Impostor syndrome. The insidious pressure to conform.

One day, the counselors led them on a hike to a ridge overlooking the lake. Below, sunbathers dotted the shore, tiny specks of color.

"Up here," said Jenna, a counselor with wild red curls, "you see how different we all are. But also, how it doesn't matter. Nature doesn't care if you have cellulite or bad hair. It just… is.”

The simple truth of it hit Emma like a revelation.

The following weeks were a whirlwind of small victories. She tried rock climbing, discovering a hidden strength. She swam in the lake without a coverup for the first time since childhood. And she finally found the courage to voice her true desires. No more business school, the path expected. It was time to study photography, to capture the world on her own terms.

The last morning of camp, they had a mirror ceremony. It sounds corny, she realized, but it wasn't. As each girl stepped forward, Jenna didn't offer compliments but questions.

"Emma. What do you see beyond the reflection?"

For a moment, there was the usual inventory: brown eyes, unruly hair starting to frizz in the heat. But then, like a muscle flexing after long neglect, a flicker of something else. Strength from those rock-climbing victories. Determination in the set of her jaw.

"Potential," she said, the word both foreign and thrilling on her tongue.

It wasn't about loving her appearance suddenly. That path would be longer. But maybe, just maybe, it could become a truce, a ceasefire. Her body was simply the vessel carrying her forward.

Driving home, she heard a song on the radio. A familiar voice, a catchy melody. She rolled down the window, letting wind whip her hair, and caught a line from the chorus:




Emma smiled. She was still at the start of that less-traveled road, with plenty of stumbles likely ahead. But for now, there was the open sky, a sense of possibility, and a song to soundtrack the journey.