Regretfully, Yours Truly

I often have this weird pain that sits in the back of my throat. It’s the swell. The buildup before the screaming and crying. And it hurts because I let it sit there. 

I have a really hard time sitting with the thoughts that make me uncomfortable. I start to squirm. I start to cry. And I try to stop myself from completely losing it ‘cause it feels shallow to feel sad. ‘Cause that’s what people want from women, right? That’s the constant contradiction, isn’t it? 

The world says, I want you to be pretty, but I don’t want you to know it. I want you to like that I validate it, but I don’t want you to need it. 

And I’m sorry if that makes me shallow, but sometimes, I really do need it. I feel scared to say that, but it’s honest. And it’s not abnormal, because I can see it. 

I like to play this game: How many women can I catch in the span of a certain timeframe watching another woman? Watching a man watch another woman. Watching and waiting to see if any other women take note of her. 

I think what a lot of women want is to feel beautiful. 

I think what a lot of women want is to feel beautiful without the fear of being told that they’re wrong. 

Because if others believe it—that I’m pretty or attractive—then I’m not wrong for feeling that way about myself too. If more men say it, if it’s what goes viral, then it must be an undeniable fact that I am. 

And I get it. I get that I can “give that validation to myself”. But I need you to get that, no I can’t. You can’t tell a girl who’s spent her whole life helping her friends sift through the massive flood of options, watching other women drown in seas of compliments, that she can just give that to herself. 

And you can give me countless other opinions about unapproachable, or striking, or unique beauty. 

And I can give you—the finger.

Because what I hear and what you’re really trying to say without being rude, is weird, different, not conventional.

And you know what’s weird, different, and not conventional? Tabi shoes—the ugliest things I’ve probably ever seen. Rat tails on men—shave that off.

“You are something people just don’t get immediately.”

Okay… well, how about I also be something unapologetically pissed off. Because while yes, I admit I feel immense amounts of internal pressure, you can’t tell me that it’s not societal pressure that made me feel that way. Sometimes I wonder if there were more Indigenous representation, would I feel happier with the way that I look? If my beauty was more everyday, if you saw it walking down the street or on movie screens, maybe people would like me more. Maybe I’d look less uncommon—easier to digest. If I didn’t feel like a constant spectacle, maybe I’d feel less like a carnival attraction. Something strange and intriguing to look at. 

I’m also confused. Seeing people morph themselves into aspects of my beauty and watching others scratch their way out of it. Maybe my nose only looks pretty on that skin tone or with that makeup. Or maybe my cheekbones are easier to look at on a white woman. 

I think I’m also tired of waiting for the shift to come. Hoping one day I’ll wake up and look completely different. Hoping one day I’ll wake up and feel completely different. Perhaps one day, I’ll wake up and feel pretty because the world tells me I am. 

There are days when I poke at my bruised heart, wounding it more when I know I shouldn’t. I ask questions constantly, wondering what’s different. Sometimes I lie and say I think it’s pretty cool. Being off-putting or just a little too intimidating. In a way, it’s redirection, right? Protection, right? It’s what I tell myself to make myself feel better.  

It doesn’t help. 

But you know what? The truth is, in my observations I’ve noticed just how beautiful women really can be. How almost every woman I meet changes my perception of a 10.  I guess the real work is trying to reflect that back onto myself. 

Maybe that’ll change as I get older. There’s a chance I’ll just become too tired to keep up with my looks or care less about trying to fix my self-esteem. I can’t tell you how much I yearn for the ability to just be. To just exist without those feelings. To exist without the world telling me I need to have those feelings. And it hurts more to know that the feeling never really goes away. You can do as many self-care nights and confidence podcast marathons as you want, but come talk to me in a week. A month. The doubt is always kinda there, building until you eventually burst and start the self-love cycle over again. If the world just validated me, then I wouldn’t feel this way. If the world just said, “Hey, look at her,” then I wouldn’t feel this way.

I’m trying really hard to wrap this up into a neat little bow. But I can’t. I’m angry, sad. My thoughts are running rampant about everything I want to be and everything I’m not meant to be. I keep thinking about other pretty women. I keep thinking about silent competition. I keep thinking about hating myself for feeling jealous about something so shallow. I’m confused about how sometimes society places me in a box and how other times I am so far removed from conventions that I’m just left out entirely. I’m choking on the thought of fitting in and standing out. 

This is when the swell begins. This is when I start to hate myself for my thoughts. I feel like you can feel my insecurity through the screen. And parts of me want to drag you through it so that hopefully, you can find deeper parts of me that are just as beautiful as other people’s faces. 

I’m fighting the urge to cry now. About the top layer of attractiveness. About everything I want to fix. About little girls who don’t feel it yet. About men. About painted nails and proper posture. 

I guess I’ll end by saying that I hope you see me the way that I see you. Beautifully put together. Deeper than you know. And soft to the touch.

Thank you.