I’ve been dying to meet someone who has loved themselves from the start. Someone who has, on the daily, stared at themselves in the mirror amidst the haze and truly admired the image before them. Chances are you probably don’t know anyone like the person I’m describing. If you believe you do, you’re most likely playing into this person’s façade.

I vividly remember choosing white Barbie dolls over black Barbie dolls, anguishing over having to play Sasha instead of Chloe, and crossing my fingers in hopes of miraculously turning into what I believed was a strawberry blonde, pale-skinned beauty. If time permitted, I’d spend hours running a brush through my kinky-curls to flatten them out, and I’d find myself even more disappointed with the frizzy mess I’d forcibly create. I’d dread the summer for months in advance, rueing the day my skin would go from chocolate brown to a subtle purple hue. Opportunities to have a hot comb graze over my hair were not always there, but when they did come about, I was more than thrilled to have my hair straightened.

For centuries, there has been this longstanding principle of colorism that plagues society in a manner that seeks to divide individuals instead of unify them, based solely on their complexions. When girls choose to wear their afros, they’re asked in return, “When are you going to do your hair?” People ask to touch your hair, but they’re startled to find that it’s not necessarily as coarse as they’d imagined. Our pillowy, voluminous hair is overlooked when compared to pin-straight styles. After 18 years of living, I’m well aware of the fact that I was not entirely at fault for strongly disliking who I was.

My internalized self-hate followed me into high school where I continued to schedule appointments with the blow dryer and flatiron several times a month. There would be sprouts of my normal curl pattern on my head and then unfortunate patches of frizz that lacked definition; the consistent use of heat lengthened my curls to the point where they hardly existed anymore. Unfortunately, not much besides a big chop or a reformed way of thinking could have been done to undo the years of damage.

In 2014, I made the decision to donate 10 inches of my hair and about $1,000 to the St. Baldrick’s Foundation. I hardly recognized the substantial change for what it was, but even if I did two years later, I was still well on my way to realizing the utter truth about what I was harboring. While I did leave inches of hair behind that day, I also left much of the contempt I felt for my appearance there too. I had hair brimming the curvature of my jaw, a newfound sense of confidence, and a heartfelt appreciation for my ability to make an effort to reverse my self-hatred. I’d done all of the aforementioned by impacting the field of children’s cancer research at the same time.

In truth, I still get bummed out when people ask me why I’ve opted to rock twists as opposed to the lengthy straight-haired dos I used to. Sometimes I wonder if I’d be taken more seriously or if others would judge me less. Slowly, but surely, I’m learning what it is to be more enthralled by what I have to possess outside of what everyone else sees. For I am not defined by the way my hair falls nor how the light bounces off of my skin. Perhaps one day, however, I’ll look back and chuckle at the thought of looking at myself with such contempt in the first place. Because now I see a form of authenticity that would not have been discovered had I not overcome that hill to begin with. I’m still learning how to just be. I hope others will too.