What if we, instead of hiding our bodies, or desiring them changed in a photograph or by a certain pose or, dare I say photoshop, we instead celebrated what they truly are? What if we decided that every wrinkle, every curve, every aspect of who we truly are is beautiful and worthy of being deemed art? What if we looked at a photograph of ourselves and we praised the love we saw for our children, the strength of our arms around our babies, the softness of our touch toward our tween, the joy in our eyes as we are surrounded by the chaotic energy of our toddlers, the way that our husbands look at us in awe, or the way our little boys hold onto us like they never want to let go?