“If Beauty Was a Person, I’d Ask Her This…”
Dear Beauty,
If you were a person, I think I’d sit across from you in silence at first.
Not because I wouldn’t have questions,
But because you’ve spent years being louder than me.
You were in the magazines I read at 13.
You were on the Instagram posts I saved at 16.
You were the girl I wasn’t, the version I thought I had to become.
And yet, I never met you.
So if I could talk to you — just once —
Here’s what I’d ask.
---
“Why did you always feel so far away?”
Even when I wore what they wore.
Even when I changed my walk, my hair, my laugh.
Even when I didn’t eat.
Even when I overthought every angle, every flaw, every picture I deleted before posting…
You still didn’t show up.
You made me believe you only belonged to others —
girls with smoother skin, straighter teeth, smaller waists, bigger eyes, quieter mouths.
Why did you let me believe I wasn’t enough?
---
“Why did you punish me for growing?”
When I was younger, people called me cute.
But as I grew — so did expectations.
Suddenly, beauty wasn’t about joy. It was a competition.
Suddenly, it was about how well I could shrink. How polished I could look.
How much I could hurt myself in silence and smile anyway.
Every stretch mark was betrayal.
Every pimple was shame.
Every pound, every wrinkle, every strand of frizz — a reason to hide.
Wasn’t I still human under all of it?
Didn’t I still deserve to feel lovely?
---
“Why did you make me invisible when I needed love the most?”
On the days I was sad, no one noticed.
Not because I wasn’t hurting — but because I wasn’t “glowing.”
Beauty, you taught the world to praise what shines.
But you forgot to tell them that the most fragile parts of me — the soft, real parts — deserve kindness too.
You made me think love had a look.
And that I didn’t wear it.
But now I know: love has nothing to do with lashes or lipstick.
And everything to do with light — from within.
---
“Why did I chase you when I could have chased peace?”
I spent years chasing you.
I used filters, mirrors, lotions, edits, and lies.
I begged for your approval in hearts and comments and compliments I barely believed.
But beauty — you’re not real.
You’re not a number.
You’re not a dress size.
You’re not the girl in the ad who probably doesn’t even recognize herself.
You are a story — a dangerous, shifting, shapeshifting story.
And I want to rewrite it now.
