I am so insecure because I don’t look like other girls. Because my stomach still jiggles when I run. Because my backside is as flat as the plains of Arkansas that I drove through with my ex-boyfriend…who now has a much skinnier girlfriend.
Because I will never the confident girl at the party, at the bar, or in the bedroom.
Because I assume that every guy who glances my way is silently comparing me to some other woman. For everything I lack, they find another reason to keep walking by.
Because I am not a self-proclaimed “queen” or “baddie.”
Because more often than not, I care too much. I am too gentle. I am too soft. I am too much of everything that is just not enough for anyone else.
Every inch of bone in my body aches with the feeling that I am just not pretty enough.
Previously, I had thought “pretty” was the way that the daisies bloomed in my front yard every year, right across from the dogwood trees. I thought it was the way the wind wraps around your body in early autumn and plays with your hair until it becomes a tangled mess.
But “pretty” is actually something else entirely.
It’s measured by cheekbones and lip fillers. It’s defined by the curves underneath a dress that’s two sizes too tight. It’s proven by highlights and contours. It lasts only as long as you can hold a perfect duck-lipped pose.
And here I was all this time, thinking that the flowers in my hair every summer were enough. Here I was thinking that I could pretty too, but if “pretty” is genuinely defined by physical attributes, I’d rather just disappear into the background. Being “pretty” on the outside has nothing on having a pretty mind, a pretty heart, and a pretty soul.
But this day and age, that’s a rare find.