Tell her she's beautiful

1991

I'm almost five years old. It's Easter Sunday and I finally get to wear that pink frilly dress with the baby blue sash that's been hanging in my closet for months. I haven't been allowed to wear it or even touch it. Until now.

I climb on a chair to get it out of my closet and practically rip it off the hanger in my excitement. I pull it up (because why would I pull the dress over my head?) and get my arms in the sleeves before running down the hall to have Mom zip it.

As the zipper goes up, I hear a heartbreaking riiiiiiiip followed by an even more heartbreaking, "It doesn't fit anymore. You'll have to wear something else." And if it's possible, that's followed by an even more disastrous, "You got too chubby, we're going to have to put you on a diet. No more snacks."

Cue tears.

1997

I'm two months shy of being 11. Swimming was the only thing I had in my life at that point that I felt I was remotely good at. I practiced about five days a week and had meets on weekends. The pool was my world where I felt at home and flip flops, shorts, and Speedos, while not entirely comfortable, were my clothing of choice. I go through a growth spurt of about three inches and gain roughly ten pounds. That's a hard adjustment for any kid in and of itself.

But then it gets worse: I get my period for the first time and my body is doing all sorts of weird shit that no one felt it necessary to explain to me beforehand. I feel fat, gross, confused, hormonal, and vulnerable. I'm bleeding, feel like I'm dying, and just need a little reassurance that A) this is totally normal, and B) I'm pretty and beautiful and I don't look as gross and fat as I feel.

"Mom, what's wrong with  me? I feel fat and yucky."

"Yeah it's normal, deal with it."

"But Mom, I got fat."

"Well go for a run and don't eat as much."

Shit. Good call, Ma.

2003

I'm almost 17 years old. I just finished high school and am about to leave for college. I weigh 85-90 pounds and for a girl who has always done sports and has been pretty muscular, I'm too damn small. My clothes are all too big and nothing fits correctly and I'd rather stay in the house and never leave than bother to get prettied up and go out with friends. Nothing I wear is ever right and my hair is never in place.

"You can't leave the house like that."

"Why not?"

"That skirt is too short and the top is too tight and too low. You look fat and slutty."

"Ma, the shirt is too big and the skirt is at my knees."

"Whatever, you're not going out like that. And your hair is all frizzy and you really need to stop slouching."

"I'm not slouching."

"You should probably put some makeup on too. You look washed out and far too Asian without eyeliner (What. The. FUCK?!)."

Fantastic.

I'm not pretty

From the time I was small to now, my parents have never told me I was pretty. Or beautiful. Or anything similar to that. You may think it's an exaggeration, but it's true. My hair was always too short, too long, too frizzy, too flat. I was always too fat, too thin, lacking boobs and any sort of ass. My clothes were always too short, too tight, too revealing, too slutty. I either didn't have enough makeup on and looked like a plain Jane, or too much and looked like a common streetwalker.

I always envied my friends growing up who had adults in their lives, moms and dads, aunts and uncles, grandparents, who would tell them they were pretty. There was always something wrong with the way I looked and always something that could be better. I was never ok just being the way I was. My parents didn't allow it. My mother said she didn't like that I was growing up in a culture that rewarded mediocrity. Sure, that's fine. I get it. Let's not reward complacency. But giving your daughter (and sons) a healthy self-esteem is crucial so they don't constantly compare themselves to others and wish they looked different or were someone different than they were born to be. I hated going clothes shopping. Specifically with my mother. I never wore clothes that fit correctly until I left for college and even then not really until I hit about 20-21. From swimming for the longest time my shoulders were always massive but my body was always a small or extra-small (imagine Michael Phelps' body, but on a five-foot-tall girl). However, my mother would get me clothes that were at least two sizes too big and God forbid I show that I have any sort of shape under the baggy clothes. 

Even now going clothes shopping I get anxious, feeling my mother staring over my shoulder when I try clothes on in the dressing room. Reason #1 I usually order my clothes online...Now, looking back, I feel as though my mother, who has always been overweight her entire life, felt the need to de-prettify me in order to feel not so shitty about herself. Like she couldn't have a daughter who was more confident or prettier than she was/is. I'm not saying I am either of those things, but it was almost as though I needed to be torn down to complete shreds until I had absolutely no self-esteem left in order for her to feel good about herself.

A +++ on the parenting skills, mother.

If you can't beat them... 

Thankfully for me, we live in a society where I have the resources to shape my image into what everyone else expected me to be or what I could be. So obviously I did the complete opposite. I started dying my hair all sorts of random colors and I think it's been every color imaginable, except blonde (go figure). At one point I had 15 piercings (I'm currently down to nine), and I started getting tattoos the second I turned 18, of which I now have four. Was it rebellion? Maybe. If I was constantly going to be told that there was something wrong with me, I might as well make there be something legitimately and socially wrong with me so that they'd have something to bitch about. I went through the goth stage, the prep stage, the I-don't-give-a-fuck stage, the fashionista stage.

I hid under these "images" so I wouldn't have to admit how broken I was. All I wanted was for someone to call me pretty. During this stage, from probably 16-21, I started expermenting with other things as well. From self-mutilation (which I've mentioned in previous posts), to drugs, to some pretty heavy binge drinking which resulted in a hospital visit, a stomach pumping, and alcohol poisoning. I did what I wanted, when I wanted, and just didn't care. I was cool. I fit in. And until the puking and hangover started I felt like I was in control and felt temporarily good about myself. The temporary high of feeling like I was somebody. Somebody worthy of being loved and being told they were worth something.

All the wrong places

Boys. Boys are always trouble no matter how you look at it. However, combine an emotionally unstable girl who is looking for approval no matter the source and little boys who think they're men, the result is disastrous. The first boy to tell me he thought I was pretty...look out! I was on cloud nine. Life was perfect. Things were great. It didn't matter who it was, he thought I was pretty. I had some sort of worth to somebody. Because I just wanted to be loved and wanted to be told I was beautiful and to feel good about myself, I let my guard down too many times for too many of the wrong people. This made me feel even more ugly than I did to begin with. I was miserable and my self-esteem would be on this constant roller coaster. I sometimes felt like I was on that spinny ride that makes you feel like you're in a washing machine: it's fun at first but when it's over, all you want to do is puke, but you're dumb enough to get back on.

Oh I had friends throughout the years who would tell me I was pretty, and after a point, I knew in my head that by society's standards and perhaps asthetic standards, I was "pretty" and maybe even "beautiful." But hearing it, knowing it, feeling it, and believing it, are all very different things, and not things that necessarily go hand in hand.

I'm beautiful

Over the years, I've gone out of my way to make sure all the other girls and young women (and even older women) in my life are told they're beautiful. Who knows? Maybe they don't often or never hear it at home. I know I sure as hell didn't. Because of this, I developed an early case of anorexia, for a few years coupled with bulimia, that still lingers over me today. While by medical standards I'm a "recovered anorexic," I will always consider myself to be "recovering." Present tense. Not past. That sort of mental and emotional damage just doesn't go away. You don't just "recover" from a mindset that is drilled into you from such a young age. You don't just "get over" being told you're imperfect and unpretty. It takes a longass fucking time. You have to consciously re-teach and re-train yourself to think of yourself as beautiful and constantly remind yourself that you are the way you're supposed to be and nothing more or less.

To this day, I prefer to not wear form-fitting clothing. I don't always feel like I look good, and am super self-conscious and uncomfortable the entire time I'm wearing the clothing in question. Give me some sweats, yoga pants, jeans, T shirts, tanks, and zip up hoodies, and I'm a happy camper. If I can get away without putting makeup on, you'll be damned sure I'm going to do so. I've gotten to a point in my life where I'm way over the fashion and fads and the dos and don'ts of what I'm supposed to look like, wear, and be. Don't get me wrong, I still battle constant insecurities and have many days where I feel like I'm not good enough and I'm not living up to some imaginary standard that, often, only exists in my head. But overall, I'm comfortable in who I am and the woman I've grown into and I know that regardless of the hair day I'm having or whether I'm feeling bloated or thin, I am beautiful because I'm beautiful inside out, not the other way around.

So please, please, PLEASE, PLEASE, tell her she's pretty. Tell your daughter, your sister,  your niece, your cousin. Make sure they know that all bodies and all shapes and all sizes and all ethnicities are beautiful. Leave them a note on their car, in their locker, on the bathroom mirror. Tell them in a phone call, a text, a Facebook message, an email. Best of all, tell them to their face. Let them know you think they're worth something. Let them know you think they're pretty. Let them know they're beautiful.

This world is fucking beautiful because of the people in it. Make sure you let them know.