about me my reflections


Just over a year ago I began posting my work outfits on a regular weekly basis and even though it seems as if so much has happened in that time, nothing really has changed. It’s interesting how the documentation of daily life almost makes you more aware of it …even if the focus does happen to be directed towards …the documentation of it. The memories are still there.

At the end of the day I usually check my most recent post by taking a minute to dissect my photos and re-read what I possibly rushed through earlier in the day. This may be a bit narcissistic, self-centered or any other ego-centric label you can conjure up but it allows me {with a critical eye} to see the good, the bad, and the ugly and keep the positives and toss the negatives. My mind tends to look at things and try to figure out how to make them better and to deny my own work the same eye would be to hinder it. I want to grow, to constantly evolve and become better …at everything.

As I looked at Friday’s outfit post, staring at my own reflection, a realization nearly slapped me in the face . . .

I am a woman.

Well, at least I look like a woman.

…a confident woman who has it all together, who knows exactly what she’s doing and where she’s going with everything figured out.

And sometimes I do. But mostly, beneath the exterior, I still just feel like a kid.

At home with my husband, I am not the same woman who gets dressed and leaves the house. With zero make up on and hair in a bun, I am goofy, I dance and sing and bounce around like a silly child, playing video games and wailing on plastic drum sets while wearing sweats and t-shirts. I cry and complain and pout and fret and am seemingly terrified of most things. The social anxiety that has come with age {and living in Los Angeles} keeps me most comfortable in my home, where I can continue rebelling against the system and acting immature.

But when I see the photos of my face, my very womanly 33 year old face, I have to ask myself, Am I the woman I wanted to be?

When I was a child all I wanted to be was a “woman”. I had an exact idea of what I wanted to look like when I became this “woman”, how I wanted to carry myself and how I wanted to behave. I spent time cultivating this imaginary woman taking bits and pieces from older women I admired, from family members and family friends to film and television icons, integrating them all into my own ideals.

And then I waited.

…and waited. And while I waited, I wondered “What makes a woman a woman?” and when was it going to happen to me? Was it getting married? Pregnancy and having kids? A great career? Buying a house? Lines and wrinkles? Gray Hair?

And now I know, it isn’t any of those things in particular …it’s all of them. It’s life knocking you down and building you up. It’s pain and loss and not getting everything you want. It’s realizing that life isn’t like the fairy tales that were emblazoned on our little girl brains, well not for 99% of us at least. It’s reality and yeah, it’s wrinkles and saggy body parts and used to be perky no matter what.

And all of that just makes me want to stomp my foot and furrow my brow and scream “it’s not fair!”

But it was the documentation of my life, of myself, and the reflection upon it that had to show me who I was and what I looked like and that indirectly yelled at me . . .


Maegan Tintari

LA native & lifestyle blogger Maegan Tintari writes daily at ...love Maegan.com sharing beauty & style secrets, including fashion DIYs, how-to nail art manicures, hair tutorials, recipes & home decorating ideas, as well as a look into her personal life, her journey & battle with infertility & recent relocation to the mountains by a lake in search of a better life with her adorable French Bulldog brothers, Trevor and Randy.

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