Growing up, the comments section of my report cards all read the same: I was a “quiet powerhouse,” “well read,” “smart.” I knew I was a good listener and a good friend. I was a wallflower, but I was content with my position and who I was. I had established my identity as a calm and compassionate person — the way I looked or what other people thought of me didn’t even factor into my carefully curated persona.
Yet when high school rolled around, I wanted to try something drastically different, to differentiate myself from middle school me and elementary school me. This manifested itself in experimenting with the way I looked. My appearance still didn’t factor into who I was — this experimentation was purely external. I tried wearing makeup for the first time. I grew my hair out of the bob it had remained in since elementary school. I exchanged my glasses for contacts. And then, everything changed — for the first time, I felt like I was getting attention, measured through my Instagram DMs or story likes. I felt seen. I’ve felt like an outsider for most of my life, and now, people I didn’t know just knew my name in passing — a far cry from classrooms where I was endlessly mixed up with the other quiet girl in glasses.
I felt wanted for the first time in my life. The delicately constructed image I had held of myself faded. I felt like I needed to perform, like I was keeping up a ruse. I was terrified that if I didn’t, then I would inevitably fade back among the wallflowers again. I began to feel like I didn’t have control over my life — I was at the whims of others, because everything was a reminder of how quickly I could fade if they decided to strip me of their attention. Where I was once content with my status as a wallflower, it felt so good to be seen, even though the seeing was purely physical.
I believed that if I left the house without makeup, I would disappoint some unseen audience, from whom I was constantly vying for approval. Despite my desire, getting that approval meant nothing — pandering to faceless Snapchat ghosts didn’t elicit any pleasure or excitement from me. It was just an insatiable desire — it didn’t make me happier or feel any better about myself. It just deepened my feelings of performativeness.
Ironically, it was a comment that seemed to prove my worst fears that broadened my entire perspective. During a club meeting, a girl offhandedly mentioned that even though I was really pretty, I didn’t talk, so being pretty was all I had.
At first, that comment made me freeze. It seemed to answer the question I had anxiously posed to my friends a month before: “What if being pretty is all I am?” The affirmation couldn’t be any clearer, and I wasn’t expecting it to be delivered straight to my face like that. I was angry, and hurt, and intensely disappointed at myself — mostly because I had been treating myself like she was.
Despite my anxiety and fears, the statement didn’t feel true to me or even remotely reminiscent of who I was, yet that was the way I had been treating myself — like something to be seen rather than the person I was. I was treating myself like being pretty was all I had. Intrinsically, I knew I was so much more — and to the people who mattered to me, I was so much more. My friends weren’t friends with me because I was pretty. Ultimately, being pretty isn’t even equatable to being intelligent or kind or funny, so why was I treating it like it was?
Why was I trying to showcase myself in a way that I hated to please people whose opinions didn’t really matter to me or affect me? I wasn’t any happier or satisfied because of the way I viewed myself. If other people viewed me in a certain way, then so be it — they weren’t the people I wanted to be around anyway. But I didn’t want to view myself in a way that diminished all of my incredible qualities anymore. Everything I had been growing up — empathetic, kind, intelligent, eloquent — they all still held true.
Sometimes I still feel kind of performative, but most of the time, the overwhelming pressure to play for some unseen audience has faded. Rather than a conscious decision, I found myself spending less time getting ready in the mornings. I spent more time doing activities that fulfilled me in ways performing didn’t, like spending time with my friends and family. It’s been slow and steady, but surprisingly easy — the hardest step was letting go of my mindset. 
Now, there are days (weeks even!) when I don’t wear makeup to school or wear my day four hair up — something I would have lost my mind over in sophomore year. And it makes me so much happier! My identity isn’t built upon the way I look — that’s not even something that should factor into who I am. Treating myself like so much more has also made me feel like so much more. I know I’m wanted for way more than being “pretty” — not only by my friends and the people I care about, but by me.
