Diary of a Woman

I can't quite pinpoint a time in my life when I felt completely at ease with myself, cozy in my own skin, if you will. From the get-go, it seemed like society, with a heavy hand, served up this image of perfection—think model-thin, sky-high, sun-kissed blonde, with a sprinkle of extrovert on top—as the gold standard of attractiveness. But here's the kicker: even if you fit snugly into this glossy mold, the world still treats you differently, and why? Simply because you're a woman.

Back when I was about eight, believe it or not, I already saw myself through a harsh lens, tagging myself as overweight. The truth was, I wasn’t; it’s just that I was on the shorter side, making my weight distribute in its own unique way compared to my taller girlfriends. Shyness was like a second skin to me even then, leaving me on the outskirts, nervously eyeing the so-called cool kids from a distance. That’s when the bullying started—a nebulous, unwelcome cloud without a silver lining. As my insecurities began stacking up like unwanted books, I made the choice to stick to the shadows with a handful of friends who, as fate would have it, eventually drifted into different circles.

Even at such a tender age, I found myself caught in a storm of self-doubt, gazing in the mirror with a wishful sigh, dreaming of being anything other than what I was—prettier, taller, leaner. It was a heavy cloak of thoughts for such small shoulders.

Enter middle school—an era marked by the allure of television and the glitz of celebrity culture. Media became a constant companion, its whispers weaving seamlessly into the fabric of my life. Little did I know, its toxicity would soon seep into my very being.

As I gazed at the screen, mesmerized by the glossy perfection of celebrities, a nagging voice inside me began to question. Why were these seemingly flawless individuals subjected to such vile scrutiny? And if they, with their fame and beauty, were deemed unworthy, what did that say about someone like me? It was a tangled web of insecurities, spun from the threads of societal expectations and media portrayals.

In those tender years, I found myself absorbing the harsh judgments cast upon women like a sponge, internalizing their criticisms as my own. It was a heavy burden to bear, a constant reminder of the endless scrutiny women faced, leaving me to wonder if simplicity was a luxury reserved only for men, and if as women, we were doomed to forever navigate a landscape of impossible standards and unattainable perfection.

Throughout high school, I found myself lost in contemplation in front of the mirror, eyeing the reflection of a teenage body that was perfectly normal—not overweight, just a teenager's physique. Yet, there I was, critiquing every inch of myself, a ritual no child should be burdened with. At a time when my focus should have been on algebra problems and literature essays, my mind was ensnared by the notion of attractiveness, of seeking validation through a boyfriend’s attention, as if that were the elixir for feeling valued in this vast world.

Each day brought with it the heavy question: What does it truly mean to be a woman? Was our sole purpose to captivate the opposite sex, to mold ourselves into the living embodiment of a magazine cover, hoping it might smooth our path through life? This silent questioning, a constant echo in the back of my mind, painted my high school years with shades of doubt and confusion, as I grappled with understanding my worth beyond the superficial lenses of society.

There I was, yet again, pulling at my skin in front of the mirror, my fingers tracing every perceived flaw, every blemish that dared to mar my reflection. This ritual had woven itself into the fabric of my daily life, a relentless inventory of imperfections. Each pound on my body felt like a burden, a debt that I was desperate to rid myself of, as if shedding weight could somehow settle the score with my insecurities.

And then, there were the endless scrolls through TikTok, where I found myself mesmerized by girls who seemed to embody an unattainable ideal—youthful yet possessing the poise and perfection that I longed for. With their petite frames, towering heights, flat stomachs, and sculpted noses, they were the epitome of what I wished to see in my own reflection. Day after day, I caught myself dreaming of a magical ability to copy and paste their features onto myself, a desperate wish to look in the mirror and finally see what I deemed perfect.