Please Love Yourself

Aurora  赵佳诺 230110514

In a quaint village nestled between rolling hills, there lived a young woman named Sally, whose spirit shone as brightly as her remarkable talents. Though her heart brimmed with compassion, it carried an invisible burden—a ceaseless hunger for others' approval. She poured herself into fulfilling every request and expectation, her own dreams quietly gathering dust like forgotten treasures in an attic. Days blurred into nights as she danced to the world’s rhythms, until one twilight hour found her soul wearier than her tired hands.

Seeking solace, she wandered into the embrace of an ancient forest, where dappled sunlight painted gold upon mossy stones. There, nestled between gnarled roots, her gaze fell upon a solitary blossom—a delicate marvel of cerulean petals trembling in the breeze. Unseen by passersby, unfazed by isolation, it radiated quiet majesty, its very existence a hymn to self-contained beauty. The flower’s silent poetry pierced Sally’s heart: "Must approval water my roots to bloom?"

In that crystalline moment, mirrors shattered in her mind. She saw with aching clarity how she’d become a stranger to her own soul, how her laughter had grown rehearsed, her passions sacrificed at altars not her own. Memories surfaced of abandoned canvases, of half-written songs silenced by others' demands. A tear traced her cheek as whispered words escaped her: "When did I stop being my own sanctuary?"

Thus began Sally’s renaissance. At dawn’s first blush, she revived her abandoned easel, transforming a sunlit corner into a sacred studio. Brushes initially hesitated, haunted by phantom whispers of "selfish" and "unnecessary. “Yet as vermillion and cobalt bloomed across canvases, they became alchemical portals—here, in the dance of pigment and purpose, she rediscovered her forgotten language of joy.

Her metamorphosis deepened. Mornings now began with rituals of self-honoring: sun-kissed breakfasts where pomegranate seeds glistened like rubies, twilight walks where her footsteps synchronized with heartbeat rhythms. Where once she’d bent like willow to others' winds, gentle but firm boundaries took root—"This I can give; this I must keep." To her wonder, relationships didn’t wither but flourished, now watered by authenticity rather than obligation.

Seasons turned. The village began noticing not Sally who tirelessly served, but Sally who glowed—whose eyes sparkled with unborrowed light, whose presence radiated quiet magnetism. Children clustered round her vibrant paintings; elders nodded sagely at her newfound wisdom. Yet her greatest revelation came moon-gazing one eve: self-love wasn’t a destination, but the sacred art of becoming both gardener and blossom in one’s own life.