The morning before my sister’s wedding, I woke up to find my hair gone. My mother had crept into my room at nigh…

They blinked. Otherwise, I continued, I have a full room of people I actually respect waiting to hear me speak. As I turned away, I saw them standing in place.

Out of place. Uncomfortable in the very space they once thought I was unworthy of. I didn’t need to yell.

I didn’t need to shame them. The building, the people, the success. That was louder than any insult.

But just as they walked out the glass doors, I called after them. By the way, next time you try to cut down a daughter to elevate another, just remember, scissors dull, but some girls sharpen. They never came back.

And I never needed them to. Because I had finally learned they didn’t define my beauty. They didn’t define my power.

And they never, ever had the right to define my worth. Not with scissors. Not with silence.

Not ever again.