#7 - Beautiful
Recently, a man told me I was beautiful.
And this woman was too stunned to speak.
Well, I did manage to squeak out a giggle and a thank you. I am a polite baddie.
This has happened a few times lately and I never know how to respond. Obviously, there’s the perfect mix of modesty and self-assuredness, but I haven’t discovered that particular potion yet.
I don’t mention this to toot my own horn, but to acknowledge that lately, I know feel like I’ve been less invisible. I’ve been fortunate enough to simultaneously de-emphasize the importance of men’s opinions/beauty as a measure of value AND come into my own as a (I’m a man, I’m 40) woman. When I was younger (and even as recently as a few months ago), my beauty was occasionally appreciated by others (in fact, I recently had medical imaging done and the technician told me that I was so pretty, it was distracting), but never cishet men. Growing up, moms of local boys would often tell me that they wished their sons would date me, but I knew I was unseen when compared to the thin white girls I saw as my friends and foes. Right here is where I’m tempted to pivot and tell you my villain origin story where I was used by guys multiple times in order to gain access to my more conventionally attractive friends social circle.
Now, I don’t currently think I’m ugly - in fact, I haven’t thought that for years now - but I am writing this from the perspective of a person that knows they fall outside of the parameters of conventional beauty standards. And not only do I fall outside conventional Eurocentric standards, I don’t even meet Black standards of beauty (come through, body by Frigidaire). BUT - I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does. I do know that beauty is subjective/pain/in the eye of the beholder, however - we’re also not going to pretend that society hasn’t created arbitrary and inflexible beauty standards. No amount of self-love can substitute for the external validation that others can provide (or general equitable treatment in life).
I do admit that I grew up feeling ugly and spent a lot of time as a self-loathing queen individual well into my twenties (please don’t look up my LiveJournal). While I definitely struggled with low self-esteem and undiagnosed mental health issues, it was not helped by the fact that I lived in small town Texas where my peers (and the adults shaping them and guiding their preferences) all looked very different from me. This was during the 1990’s and 2000’s and well… iykyk. Fat positivity (even the watered down body positive version), the natural hair movement, the recognition of colorism as a concept and racial diversity in beauty - none of those things existed yet where I lived. Hell, even in 2025? I’m not sure those things exist in Greenville, Texas (there’s a fucking cotton museum, just to give you additional context about the type of place it is). America’s Next Top Model raised me. It was rough out in the streets. Tocarra being insulted by both Janice Dickinson and Diane von Furstenburg and Cycle 1’s Robin being considered plus size (pejorative) broke down what self-confidence was left after the work done by the Delia*s catalog.
A lifetime of being treated differently, less than, if we’re being totally honest - especially during your formative years - does a number on your shelves of steam. Not only does it harm you internally, it also diminishes the ability to believe in the idea that people are generally kind, sincere and good (I mean, what sort of person fat shames or does a racism to a child????). That fact is probably obvious and comprehensible to many people (I hope), but what they don’t tell you is that a glow-up can ALSO damage your faith in humanity.
It is not lost on me that the weight loss aspect of my “glow-upTM” (please don’t believe the lie that intentionally changing your body or getting a brand new bellybutton has to be an integral part of a glow-up) has lead to an increased amount of positive attention from people, men in particular. Doors are held open for me now, literally and figuratively. And knowing the truth, that what you suspected about people all along is accurate? It’s a mindfuck (and not in the good way). Knowing that I nearly died, while all people see is the end result - is a burden that haunts every human interaction. Living with that earned and learned knowledge can sometimes be a lot. Being aware that I'm simultaneously now "enough" for some (you know who you are and hi), while still being "too fat" for others (shout out to my oncologist) is also quite a bit to deal with.
As I’m proofreading this back, it becomes more likely that I’ve dealt with distorted body image nearly my entire life.
It makes me feel a lot of things.
It makes me feel sad that others didn't appreciate my beauty, because it’s been here all along. I mean, I am a bad bitch.
It also makes feel me sad that I didn't appreciate my beauty. I’m happy that I eventually came around on myself. Now I can not only tolerate Ariel, but I also love like-like her.
It makes me feel angry that I allowed the chrysalis containing the Beautifly of my self-esteem to be crushed by young men (being very gracious here) too ashamed and cowardly to own up to their own personal preferences. I was being gaslit into my own destruction.
It makes me feel guilty that I didn’t appreciate the respect and admiration given to me by people I didn’t have to change for.
It makes me feel deep gratitude that I developed a personality beyond what I look like on the outside (I know people that haven’t and won’t, sucks to be them).
As we enter the end of year/beginning of year corridor where messages about “self-improvement” are conflated with ads to sell gym-memberships (never truly finding joy in movement), diets (protein everything, never developing a healthy relationship with food) and drugs (girl, don’t get me started on Serena) - it’s easy to forget that you are valuable and beautiful as you are. But you don’t need me to tell you that.
Enjoyed small butt, big frown #7? Tip me so I can last-minute-panic buy something to wear on NYE.
