Every morning, I put on my makeup, do my hair, find an adequate outfit, and stare at myself in the mirror. Sometimes I smile, sometimes I shrug, sometimes I want to hide. I have strange self esteem: simultaneously low and high and I have no idea how this is possible.
I check my Instagram fiercely, seeing what people comment on my photos. It ranges from emojis to spam, and people telling me they love me to people saying I’m pretty. Initially, this feels great. I feel important because someone has told me that I fit their ideal of beauty, and I am dying for validation. It makes me feel alive and youthful and as if all my dreams could come true if I was pretty.
Then I realize how surface level that is. Something as simple as my genetics can determine what kind of person I am and what kind of success I can have. It is based on my appearance, not my personality, and being pretty doesn’t allude to anything I have chosen.
I suffer from earth shattering anxiety, and living in a society so focused on appearance and illusion never lets me rest. I don’t want to be laughed at, I don’t want to be a quiet conversation that stops when I enter the room, and most of the time I don’t know how to tell myself that I am not what I look like, or how other people see me, or how other people treat me. I am my values, my goals, my drive, my relationships, my art. I don’t want to appear successful because of money, but be successful in living a full and whole life.
Don’t tell me you love how pale I am, or how blonde I am, or how blue my eyes are. Praising my privilege isn’t praising me. I want to be part of a society that sees experiences and personality before physical beauty—whatever that is. So don’t tell me you love my nose or my face or my body, either.
Tell me you like my outfit or my makeup; I at least chose those. Tell me you like my dry sense of humour, my strength, my kindness. Tell me you love me as I am and expect nothing different. Tell me you like the content of my character and see that I am—and everyone is— not what I look like. I am—and everyone is—what can’t be seen, but only felt.