When my daughter was born, the room was quiet.

Not the kind of quiet filled with joy and tears of happiness,
but the kind that hurts your chest and makes you wonder what you did wrong.

No one rushed to congratulate her arrival.

No warm words, no excited smiles, no whispered “She’s beautiful.”

Instead, there were looks — long, heavy looks —

as if her worth was being measured before she had even taken her first breath.

I heard the silence scream louder than any cry.

It told me that beauty, in this world, is often valued more than life itself.

That a newborn girl could be judged before she even opened her eyes.

But when I held her, everything changed.

Her tiny fingers wrapped around mine like she was telling me,

“I’m here. I survived. I matter.”

She didn’t need approval from strangers.

She didn’t need to fit anyone’s idea of perfection.

She was already perfect — because she was mine.

One day, the world may still be cruel to her.

It may tell her she’s not enough.

But I will spend my entire life reminding her that she is more than enough —

she is love, she is strength, she is a miracle.

And if the world can’t see her beauty,

then the world is the one who is blind.