Pretty Woman

Every time I look in the mirror, my feelings about my appearance shift depending on the day. If I’ve just come home from a long shift and jumped straight into the shower, sleep and basic care take priority over an eight-step beauty routine. But if I managed to sing along to my favorite songs on the drive home while watching the sun set, then maybe the night still feels young enough to use every self-care product I own.

Some days, the dark circles under my eyes are more noticeable. Other times, an unexpected zit steals the spotlight. “Beautiful” was never a word I kept in my bank of affirmations — but “pretty” was.

There’s a special kind of feeling that comes when the lighting in my room hits just right, softly highlighting my face. A touch of light makeup enhances the effect, and I find myself smiling — a small, effortless smile that hints at happiness and grace. In those moments, I wish this version of me — the one who smiles more often than she wears a resting bitch face — could stay a little longer.

Being confident — and allowing yourself to savor those pretty little moments — can do wonders for self-esteem. A good hair day, a perfect outfit, or a simple smile caught in the mirror can make you feel radiant. But often, when we pause and really look at ourselves, the reflection shows more than just our appearance. It can reveal old wounds that never fully healed, the weight of time’s passage etched gently across our features, or even a spirit renewed after something as simple and sacred as a long, cleansing shower.

I’ve had many of those mirror moments in my life, each one layered with the story of my becoming. In 2003, my family and I immigrated to the United States from Vietnam. We were poor, and life was difficult — the kind of difficult that shapes you without you realizing it. My parents worked tirelessly every single day to build a better future for us. I, meanwhile, was too busy trying to process everything — the language, the culture, the newness of it all — to understand that the universe had just handed me an opportunity for a different kind of life.

I grew up in the familiar streets of Saint Paul, Minnesota. My childhood was a patchwork of ordinary places: local parks, the bustling mall, crowded school hallways, and countless rides on the city bus as I explored my surroundings. Those streets became my home, but they were also the backdrop of a quiet internal struggle — the duality of being from one place but growing up in another.

For many immigrant families, the first trip we think of when we can finally afford a vacation isn’t to romantic Paris, the grandeur of London, the beaches of Bali, or even the neon spectacle of Las Vegas. It’s back home. And for us, “home” meant Vietnam — a place my parents knew intimately, with friends and family waiting for them, roots they never lost. I loved those visits too, but they also highlighted a truth I couldn’t quite articulate as a child: I didn’t fully belong there anymore, and yet I wasn’t sure I belonged here either.

Unlike my parents, who had solid foundations and clear priorities in life, I spent much of my youth searching for something I couldn’t name — a key puzzle piece I desperately needed. Looking back, I wish someone had sat me down and said:
“Diem, you’re a poor immigrant who just moved to a different country. That’s not something to be ashamed of, but you need to understand the rules of life here — and you need to adapt.”

But no one did. And so, I learned slowly. In the absence of clear guidance, I relied on my instincts. I developed sharp intuition and keen observational skills, trying to piece together the unwritten rules of the world around me.

Often, when I look in the mirror now, I see a woman who feels a little lost. Someone strong-willed yet soft-hearted. A woman who has known more pain than any other emotion — and yet still holds on to her roots: a loving inner child brimming with good intentions, mischief, and curiosity. Living with schizophrenia means my thoughts don’t always follow a straight path; they can twist, distort, and pull me into places I don’t intend to go. It’s an ongoing internal battle — one where I’ve learned to train my mind to think clearly and creatively, grounding myself in logic and facts to stay balanced as I walk that delicate gray line. And through it all, I remind myself that I am more than my thoughts: I am a human being, capable of feeling deeply, loving fully, and growing continuously.

Looking back, every version of myself that has stared back from the mirror tells a different story. There was the girl who felt out of place in a new country, the teenager who tried desperately to understand unspoken rules, and the young woman who wrestled with her mind just to feel grounded. There was pain, confusion, resilience, and growth — all of it shaping the person I am today. The mirror has witnessed every small victory and quiet breakdown, every moment of doubt and spark of confidence.

My story is not neat or linear, but it is deeply mine. And maybe that’s the point: to embrace every piece of who we are, from the scars to the smiles. So now, when I stand in front of the mirror, I see someone real — pretty average, pretty unique, pretty stylish, and most of all, pretty daring.