“Ugly” is a four-letter word that infected my vocabulary as a tween. If you were to word-search my 13-year-old brain for it, you’d receive more than 1,000 results. Not enough makeup or outfit changes could erase that dirty word from my mouth, funny enough it would rather encourage the use of it. Rounded glasses sat heavily on my nose bridge and braces over-crowded my mouth letting out an occasional spit when I would speak. At the time I didn’t think I was being so hateful of myself, I believed it was necessary if I eventually wanted to improve my image. My #1 merciless Rebecca supporter. Go, Rebecca! You’re doing AWFUL! Being surrounded by white skinny girls didn’t assist in the harsh criticism either. Watching my crush Hamilton (now thinking about it wasn’t a spectacular name) choose a tall, green-eyed blonde over my 5 ft brown-haired, brown-eyed self, chipped at the little confidence I didn’t even think existed. Did I require a race change and a growth spurt for his attention? Or maybe when Levi from 8th grade rejected me before I had even expressed a breath of my feelings. These were just two of many of what I would’ve considered “tragedies” at the time.  

After using brown eyeliner as an eyebrow pencil and the wrong shade of foundation for two years, I entered high school learning from my past mistakes. I was melting into a sense of satisfaction with my face and body. High school came with a whole new anxiety. With a new and improved complexion, initiated more interactions with boys. Their acknowledgment was what I believed I had wanted all this time besides looking pretty, but it wasn’t. I became hopeful that perhaps my personality was my winning feature, but ultimately it didn’t feel like it. I didn’t receive a feeling of euphoria, a thrill from their attention, instead, it angered me. Where was all this consideration before? Was my face all that mattered? I had formed a new hatred that bubbled inside of me waiting to erupt guts onto everyone. It was a bitter taste in my mouth that I couldn’t wash out. My suspicions were confirmed when I was told by a boy directly that he merely only liked me because I was pretty and nothing else. His defensive response could’ve resulted from my rejection of his feelings, but it unveiled his true intentions. A friendship I had naively thought was founded on honesty and respect crumbled before me. Had I merely obsessed over my appearance for validation from others?  

Yes, I had. I hadn’t done anything for myself. I came to realize that I was upset at others for superficially focusing on the surface, but I had been doing just the same. I was trying to push myself into a small space of standards alongside everyone else, like a bunch of sardines in a can. I had begun loving myself once I matured and shoved everyone’s opinions in a bottle and threw them into the ocean. They would float back occasionally, but I taught myself what truly mattered, my bliss. I had based my stringent assessment of myself on the cruel gaze of the world but acquired beauty by my definition. I regret the heartlessness I submitted my younger self into, how much I could’ve relished in that part of my childhood. How much I could’ve loved myself.  

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