My enemy, the media, is unrelenting. Through endless magazine ads, movies, and TV commercials, it has been pounded into my skull that I am not pretty enough or thin enough to meet society's standards. My mom says I'm pretty, but don't all moms say that? Isn't that their job? My little brother teases me about how I look, but that's just brotherly love, right? Even if that is the case, I'm so worn down from battling the media that I take his words to be true. When I look in the mirror, I see blue eyes embedded in a scarlet face speckled with acne. My face is round, and my chin is not as defined as I'd like. My nose is kind of lumpy, and my lips are too small for my face. My torso is a little on the flabby side; I regularly suck in my stomach. My thighs are large, and my feet are huge – so huge my family calls me “Bigfoot.” All in all, I don't seem very attractive. Would I see myself differently if I wasn't constantly bombarded with images of skinny, perfectly tanned, buxom models on TV and in magazines? Then would I stop beating it into my head that I am ugly? My mom always tells me that every girl in my grade feels the way I do. That seems hard to believe, considering most of them are petite little things who fit into skinny jeans and tight tank tops. My best friend, Linlee, is one of those girls who can wear almost anything and look fantastic. She plays volleyball and loves to play tag at recess. She's 5'2" and skinny, with thick black hair and pretty brown eyes. I'd always assumed she couldn't possibly be self-conscious. Then one day I was chatting with her online, talking about how I always feel fat, ugly, and flawed. To my surprise, she told me she feels the same way. “In homeroom today, a girl was showing off her abs,” she wrote. “It made me feel bad. I don't have abs.” Abs? I thought. Why would Linlee be worried about that? She's really fit. That's when I realized everything my mom said was true. Everyone feels self-conscious at one time or another; everyone has low self-esteem on occasion. I decided then and there that I was going to fix it for Linlee and me. We weren't going to feel bad about ourselves anymore. I quickly typed back: “You are invited to a pity party. Meet me in a Google Doc that I'll share with you.” Welcome to Haley and Linlee's Pity Party! How to play: 1. Write everything you hate about yourself. 2. Write everything you like about yourself. There must be more items that you like than hate. 3. Write everything you like about the other person. 4. Proceed to comment on the other person's lists. Linlee wrote about her lack of abs, the fact that she hated her glasses, her weird hair that was neither straight nor curly, and her social awkwardness. With every item she listed, a little chuckle of disbelief escaped me. I couldn't believe the ridiculous little “flaws” she picked that I would never notice in a million bajillion years – I was shocked. It was the same in my case. I typed all the things I hated about myself, and Linlee commented on them with responses like “What?” or “Are you crazy?” When we were listing the things we liked about ourselves, I had trouble at first. Where was the good side of me? Where were the pretty bits? How was I going to come up with more than twenty things I thought were good about myself? Somehow I managed, focusing on my talents rather than my outward appearance. Linlee seemed to struggle as well. Then, when we started to write the things we liked about each other, I began to brighten up. She wrote things I never would have thought of. She liked my talent for writing stories, the fact that I played the violin really well, and how friendly I was. The list went on and on, every item boosting my self-esteem a bit and wiping another self-deprecating thought from my mind. I vowed that from then on I would stop picking on myself for things that really didn't matter, things that nobody noticed. I'd start telling myself I am a beautiful, strong, good person. It's not easy to be my own cheerleader. The media and pictures of Photoshopped perfection that haunt me daily still get me down on occasion, but I'm able to pick myself up, brush myself off, and remind myself: I am beautiful, I am strong, I am a good person. It's a mantra that I will not let myself forget.