You stand in front of the big mirror and you frown.
I don't get it. You are so strong now. Look at your arms. When I was you, I couldn't even open the peanut butter jar, and now you lift the heavy metal bars over and over and your muscles do exactly what you tell them. That is a superpower. That is the whole thing I wanted.
But you don't smile. You hold up your glowing phone and you turn a little to one side, and then the other side, checking. You look at the picture. You don't like it. You take another one. You suck your stomach in like you're hiding.
Who are you hiding from? Nobody in here is looking. They are all doing the same thing, turning and checking and frowning at their own strong bodies.
I used to make a muscle and yell for Grandma to come feel it. She would squeeze my arm and gasp like I was the strongest person in the whole world, and I believed her, and it was the best feeling there is.
You could do that. You have a real muscle now, a big one. You earned it.
Will you flex it for me?
Just once, in the mirror, and mean it?