I am insecure about almost everything. Every morning, without fail, I am disappointed in myself for not being able to wake up perfectly. I worry about my face, which has been plagued with acne since I was twelve, despite whatever products I try to use. I worry about my stomach, which I fear will never look the way Instagram models show me that it should. I worry about whether or not my teeth are white enough when I smile. Even as a nineteen-year-old who has the healthiest weight that I’ve probably ever had, and even though my skin is finally clearing up thanks to a delicate balance of about seven products, I still can’t always find myself satisfied in my own body. Loving yourself is hard, even when you're at your best.
In response to this kind of insecurity, most people would tell me that I can easily change myself into someone that I'm happy with. But I've always found that answer to be slightly toxic; I want to be happy with the person that I already am, even if that may be a lot to ask of myself. But as I spent my high school years afraid to even look in the mirror for too long, I've found myself trying even harder to love exactly who I am.
I could go to the gym daily, and with hard work, I could probably maintain the perfect body. But I really don't want to. Not just because exercising really sucks and running is most definitely a form of psychological torture, but because at the end of my day, I'm exhausted. The last thing that I want to be doing is going to the gym. No, this isn't the healthiest outlook in the world, but I also don't think that a full-time working student should always be expected to make time for an activity that isn't exactly enjoyable.
Instead, I've just tried to make healthier choices. I've cut out all drinks but water (and my daily cup of coffee, but I don't feel bad about that) and I've made it my mission to find edible food in my school's cafeteria that isn't pizza. I also try to take the stairs instead of the elevator and the longer way to class if I have time. But these are little changes, and everyday I wonder if I should be doing more for myself. However, I do feel better, and my anxiety thanks me when I assure myself that I'm doing exactly as much as I can without stressing myself out.
As I stated earlier, I have to use a lot of products to maintain the minimal acne that I now have, but I still break out, and I still have blotchy red skin that refuses to cooperate. This has always been my biggest insecurity. For years I've hated my face just because of a few angry red dots. In the past year, I've discovered the magic that makeup can do, but I've also watched it wreak havoc on my skin as my foundation clogged my pores. I was always told that when I was older and in college I wouldn't have these problems anymore, but as my chronic acne seems to subside, I'm left with an incredible abundance of acne scars.
Most of the time, I'm discouraged by my efforts to rid myself of this problem, and I feel as though my money and time are just going to waste. But recently I was combing through the pictures on my computer and I found a picture of me in my early high school years. I was smiling and was so genuinely happy, even though that was when my skin was at its worst. I try hard not to compare myself to others or who I used to be, but I suddenly found it hard to justify my insecurities. The girl in that picture didn't deserve to hate her skin, and I don't either. In fact, looking at it made me realize that my pimples may have looked huge to me, but they really didn't take anything away from my face. They were just an unfortunate addition.
I know that I'm probably never going to look the way that I really want to or the way that societal expectations tell me to. But I've found strength in loving myself anyway. I feel good for the first time in years despite my acne and despite the fact that I've gained weight in college. I'm still using products for my face, and I still try to make healthy choices, but I've stopped expecting radical changes. My body deserves to be loved as it is, with a little upkeep.
