“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.


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“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?


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“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?


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“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.


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“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.

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So here's what I’d say at the end:

I don’t hate you anymore.

But I don’t live for you either.

You used to control me.
Now, I choose me.

I don’t measure myself in reflections.
I measure myself in resilience, in warmth, in the way I carry others with care.
I measure myself in moments where I showed up — messy, imperfect, real — and still stood tall.

If beauty is a person, she’s not flawless.

She’s someone who has cried and laughed in the same hour.
She’s someone who survived her own mind.
She’s someone who wore herself — as she is — without apology.

So maybe beauty isn’t someone I need to chase.
Maybe she’s someone I’ve been all along.

Sometimes, I wonder how many versions of myself I buried just trying to become beautiful. The loud girl. The awkward girl. The one with chipped nails and wild hair. I edited her out of photos and memories — thinking she wasn’t worthy of being seen. But now I see her clearly. She wasn’t ugly. She was honest. And that kind of beauty doesn’t fade — it just waits for us to remember.

There’s a quiet kind of beauty in the way someone forgives themselves — for not being perfect, for not fitting in, for trying so hard to be enough. I’ve learned that grace is beautiful. So is softness. So is survival. The world may never clap for that kind of beauty, but it’s the kind that holds you when no one’s watching. The kind that doesn’t ask for approval — only truth.