Made with Dignity

I still remember sitting in the high‑school lunchroom, heart thumping, waiting for my friend to come back with news from the boy I secretly liked.“So—what did he say?” I asked, half‑hopeful, half‑terrified.My friend paused. His eyes flicked away. “He said… he wouldn’t go out with you. He thinks your ugly.”

The words landed like a stone. My cheeks burned; I stared at my tray, willing the tears to stay hidden. How could I have been so foolish, I scolded myself. Why did I believe anything would be different?

That wasn’t the first time I’d worn the label ugly. Grown‑ups had whispered about my weight since I was little, as if my body were a problem to solve. Looking back at childhood photos now, I see a bright, lively girl—nothing “ugly” about her. But the enemy had already begun distorting my reflection, and those lies lodged deep.

So when I read, “I am fearfully and wonderfully made” (Psalm 139:14), the words caught in my throat. Fearfully? With dignity? My story felt full of the opposite—abuse, rejection, neglect. Where was the dignity in any of that?

And yet the truth stands: I was made with dignity. My body is a temple, precious to God. If I could whisper to that freshman girl now, I’d cradle her face and say, “You are not ugly. You were crafted with love and care. God delights in you—He hides you from those who would squander your worth.”

Even today I have to remind myself: more performance won’t make me beautiful; I already am. I can rest in His truth, let Him quiet me with His love (Zephaniah 3:17), and lay down the heavy armor of perfectionism, striving, and comparison.

When the old lies resurface, I run to my Father. He tucks me under the shadow of His wings, binds up my wounds, and fights the battles I can’t see. In His presence there is no shame—only a Shepherd who provides everything I need.

I’m learning to let go, to simply be. To breathe. To believe that I am deeply loved, held, and sung over.

Friend, if those same lies have chased you, may this be a gentle reminder:You were made with dignity, too. You can stop striving and simply receive the love that has always been yours.

Come, rest here with me.