I never felt beautiful growing up. Throughout my adolescence, I always fixated on perceived bodily flaws, harshly criticizing and despairing over my appearance. In my mind, my flaws were the first things people noticed about me, and as a result, I never felt comfortable in my own skin.
My body image issues started when I was 5-years-old and decided I hated the small birthmark on my left palm. I despised that tiny skin discoloration so much that I regularly tattooed my hands with marker ink, hoping to pass it off as another coloring book causality. Eventually, my hangup with that birthmark was replaced by my detestation for my overbite, which evolved into an abhorrence for my braces. As I grew older, I trained my resentful eye toward my hair, my acne, my side profile–and so on.
I knew that my body dysphoria wasn’t rational. If I really looked as ugly and grotesque as my mind insisted, I wouldn’t have received as many compliments on my appearance from friends or family. I wouldn’t have strangers approach me to comment on how much they loved my hair or thought I looked like a spitting image of my mother. Besides, it’s not uncommon for girls to experience insecurities about their bodies, especially with additional pressures from social media and Hollywood glorifying specific body types and shaming others.
Still, there’s this societal expectation that we’ll overcome our body issues, that we’ll one day wake up and resolve to fix our “imperfections” or accept ourselves for who we are. When that day comes, we’ll burst forth from our chrysalises and complete our metamorphosis into the beautiful, confident, champions of body positivity we were all meant to be. But if that were true, then why would I still get depressed after I resolved to love my body? Why would I still avoid social situations when I told myself I looked fine? Why did I still feel like a moth lost in a world of butterflies?
Finally, I decided that enough was enough. I was fed up with feeling imprisoned in my own body. I was tired of letting my insecurities take away my self-esteem and identity. If I couldn’t feel validated by my physical appearance, then I would discover my own beauty. I would search internally, and there I would find a beauty that would burn my eyes if they ever dared to gaze upon its brilliance.
Rather than determining which of my physical attributes I liked, I choose to identify the moments that made me feel beautiful. To me, those moments are when I howl with laughter, unleashing my joy through my toothy grin and uncontrollable giggling; when I act selflessly to serve or treat others with kindness; when I envelop myself in the presence of loved ones. I feel beautiful when I write, arranging my thoughts into stunning compositions that must come from somewhere otherworldly. I feel beautiful when I revel in God’s creation. I feel beautiful when I take a stand against injustices in our world. I feel beautiful when I tackle the impossible.
As my perspective on beauty changed, my attitude followed suit. I became more confident and sure of myself, less critical and anxious. I realized that beauty applies to so much more than our physical forms. In fact, I firmly believe that real beauty shines through our words and our actions.
I may never be satisfied with the way I look, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see my own beauty. In life, we continuously strive to see ourselves as we truly are. For myself, that journey does not exist in my body. Still, I know what I am. I am not a delicate flower on display; I am a landscape: alive, thriving, and breathtaking.
I am beautiful.
