This is my bold proclamation. The “Your” I’m invoking is none other than myself; I am “Your.” I am the “Your” who has been bombarded with the message that perfectly spaced eyes, sculpted cheekbones, and luscious lips define beauty. I am the “Your” who fell for the lie that to be desirable, I must be thin, with hairless legs, pencil-thin brows, and a perfectly round ass, all thanks to relentless ads pushing this narrow definition of beauty. This relentless pursuit of an unattainable ideal has led me to both self-doubt and a constant comparison to others, where any perceived flaw feels magnified while confidence dwindles. I cannot help but wonder how many of us have been ensnared in this web of unrealistic expectations, creating an endless cycle of dissatisfaction with ourselves and our bodies. In seeking validation from external sources, I grapple with the true essence of beauty, questioning whether it originates from within rather than conforming to a societal mold or criteria. It’s time to reshape our understanding of what beauty truly means, celebrating diversity in appearances, shapes, and forms rather than adhering to a monolith that no one can actually achieve.
When I gaze into the mirror, the reflection confronts me with a raw canvas marked by the audacious journey of shedding a hundred pounds—my brutal transformation laid bare for all to see. Each curve and contour tells a story, a testament to dedication and perseverance that reshaped not just my body but my very essence. To the outside world, my breasts might appear lovely and perky, but all I see are the haunting scars from my mastectomy and the relentless reconstruction surgeries that followed, reminders of my gritty survival and the courage it took to face such trials head-on. Those piercing marks from bladder surgeries and my c-section are constant badges of my fierce battles, each scar narrating a chapter of resilience in my life. The stretch marks from birthing three children linger, faded yet defiantly present; they stand as evidence of being a mother, of love and sacrifice, woven into the fabric of my existence. And as I peel away the layers of fabric, exposing the imperfections embraced over time, the stark truth slams into me: I don’t measure up to the so-called standards of “normal” or “flat-bellied” beauty, leaving me in a relentless war with my own allure. This war is tumultuous and ongoing, shaped by the societal pressure to conform, yet it is also a journey of self-acceptance and rediscovery, challenging me to redefine what beauty means in a world fixated on superficial standards.
I can see my age etched across my face. There aren’t many overt wrinkles, but my skin undeniably bears the marks of time, each line telling a story of joy, sorrow, and everything in between. Sun damage is unmistakable, a testament to countless days basking in the glow of the sun without adequate protection, and I’ve got these deep creases on my forehead that scream ‘perpetually annoyed’, even when I’m at peace. Those perfectly aligned eyes? They actually are—after all, they got measured for glasses, which have become a staple of my everyday look, framing my thoughts and expressions. And my cheekbones? Sure, they’re sharp and pronounced, adding character to my visage, but I can’t ignore my narrow lips, which I’m all too aware of as they seem to blend in, overshadowed by my full eyebrows that arch gracefully above. The inevitable facial hair that graces us women as we age has become a companion in this journey, a reminder of resilience and the beauty that comes with every passing year, making me embrace the changes with a sense of wonder and acceptance.
Most of the time, I can’t be bothered to shave my legs and bikini area—I just don’t have the energy. Let’s face it, it’s a vast expanse to keep smooth, and the effort can feel overwhelming. I’m on a rebellion against that outdated beauty standard, fueled by my energy levels and a growing desire for self-acceptance, but I still feel a bit too self-conscious to strut my bare legs in a dress. Each time I consider it, I grapple with those ingrained societal expectations that whisper I must conform to a certain image of beauty. I’m working on embracing it, allowing myself to wear what I want without shame, but I know it’s going to take time to fully own my body hair and to accept that it doesn’t define my worth or femininity. Ultimately, I wish to cultivate a space where I can confidently express my individuality, letting go of the need for approval from others.
The dilemma of whether to dye or embrace grey hair reflects a broader struggle with aging and societal beauty standards. On one side, there’s pride in silver strands that symbolize wisdom and experience, while on the other, there’s a longing for the vibrancy of youth. Each grey hair tells a story of resilience, but dyeing feels like a betrayal of past adventures. This decision poses a significant question: should I proudly wear the silver crown that represents my journey, or chase the youthful colours that may hide my true self? Ultimately, this internal conflict highlights the challenge of aging gracefully in an age that favours youth.
Absolutely, I admit it: my beauty standards for myself are unrealistically high, and guess what? I’ve never hit the mark, not even with my so-called ‘perfectly spaced’ eyes, which I once thought would define my appearance and my worth. That’s exactly why I’ve adopted a new mantra, one that resonates deeply within me and encourages authenticity over perfection. It’s time to throw out the absurd societal ideals that dictate what beauty is and fully embrace who I am, flaws and all, recognizing that every perceived imperfection is a part of my unique identity and that true beauty radiates from confidence and self-acceptance. This journey toward loving myself has not been easy, but it is a path worth taking, as it brings peace and a deeper appreciation for my individuality.
And here’s another thing… Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and let me tell you, my partner gazes at me as if I’m a masterpiece — raw, unrefined, unapologetically me, and finds beauty in every flaw and imperfection.
My Phoenix Rising 