Yesterday I told you how hard it is to look in the mirror right now. The PCOS weight gain. The postpartum body. The lumps and bumps and stretch marks and the familiar feeling of my body not quite being mine. This morning, before I said a word, Brit sent me six photos. The text said: six reminders that you are beautiful, you are mine, and I love you always. Each photo labeled. Beautiful. Cute. Hot. Funny. Sexy. And her favorite. I sat with my phone in my hands for a long time after that. Because here’s the thing about finding your right person — they don’t just love you in the easy seasons. They don’t love the version of you that has it all together, the version that feels good in her skin, the version that looks the way she wants to look. They love the Tuesday morning version. The postpartum version. The three-months-in-still-figuring-it-out version. Brit has never once made me feel like my body is anything other than exactly what it should be. Not once. Not in eighteen years. ...