like, actually really pretty

growing up and glowing (?) up

I have a favorite armchair in the undergraduate library, tucked into a quiet corner where I can type away on my computer or scroll through my socials without judgment. That seat is where I'm writing this from.

Last semester, I remember sitting here with my legs crisscrossed, editing an article for our student publication, when a vaguely familiar face called out my name. I looked up in confusion to see a girl waving at me.

“It is you!” she had said, immediately sitting across from me. “Do you remember me?”

I’m terrible with faces, so it took me a second, but her sleek hair and big eyes were familiar. I realized we had gone to middle school together. We weren’t friends, but we spun around each other in that complicated dance of tweens trying to get through those hallways unscathed.

This girl beamed at me. I remembered that even though her friends weren’t the kindest people back then, she had always seemed sweet. I smiled back.

“I almost didn’t recognize you!” she said. “You’re like, actually really pretty now!”

What.

It felt like somebody had turned a clock on time. With that one phrase in such an unintentionally-condescending tone, I had been catapulted back into my middle school body; awkward, self-loathing, hiding behind acne and glasses, plentiful weight issues, and a deep desire to erase her culture from her body. I won't go on about that time — that’s another post on it’s own — but needless to say, that version of myself has some deep rooted insecurities.

The girl kept cheerfully talking about my apparent glow-up, unaware of my sudden discomfort. I zoned out as I recalled how she was always pretty, even as a puberty-ridden 13-year-old. I was not. The apparent prettiness she now acknowledged came from years of insecurity, from physically pulling at my skin and hair, from sobbing on the bathroom floor, from spending hours obsessing over YouTube beauty vlogs and Pinterest outfits and Instagram models.

I still see middle school me in the mirror. We share the same thick eyebrows. The same uneven jawline. The same large forehead.

I know I look younger than I am — people constantly mistake my 15-year-old sister for being older — so I knew my features couldn't have changed that much. How was I “actually really pretty,” then? I still had my glasses, so it couldn't be like in the movies. Was it the makeup? The outfit? The “confidence?”

The girl, still unaware that her words were anything but a genuine compliment, had switched topics from middle school to university life. I snapped back into the conversation, giving a few tidbits of information. Not long after, she stood back up and told me she had to run to class but just had to see if it was really me. She said we should grab lunch sometime. I nodded (both of us knew we would never grab lunch sometime).

Then, she flashed her perfect pearly smile (she used to have braces, didn't she?) and headed off, leaving my head still spiraling with thoughts of being pretty now. I doubt she even remembers the interaction. I don't hold her against it.

I was a cute kid, in my opinion, with chubby cheeks and the classic brown-girl Dora bob. I was an ugly tween. Am I a pretty woman?

The other girl definitely was, I found myself thinking. She carried herself with easy confidence now, growing out of her baby face and Claires-loving wardrobe. But, in my eyes, she was already a pretty kid. Did she ‘glow up,’ or did she just age? Did I just age? Is that why I can’t escape my former self, why I shower with the lights off sometimes and avoid eye contact with my mirror out of the fear she might look back in disappointment?

Our apparent beauty was a combination of factors: makeup, skincare, haircare, maturity. Maybe none of us really become pretty but merely learn to highlight our “pretty” features. While I recall her middle school beauty, she might remember those years differently. She clearly remembered me as ugly, but so did I, and that’s a pain I’m still learning to unpack.

When I swipe through slideshows on social media of people boasting about their glow-ups, I feel a tinge of grief that the “before” picture must have been taken before they reached puberty. I swipe back and forth, looking for similarities in their features. The almond eyes. The strong noses. The soft smiles.

And now, kids don’t even look like kids. They’ve grown up in a world of filters and fillers, of being expected to look 20 when they just turned 12. I have a feeling that even with their apparent maturity, they will look back at their old pictures and cringe all the same.

There’s a cruelty in how I think about my younger self. I know I’m not unique for it; that kind of attitude, especially for women of color, can be prevalent throughout our lives. Before my apparent glow-up, I remember watching vlogs in my bedroom and just wishing I was a pretty white girl with silky blonde hair. But hey, in a weird, kind of fetishizing way, the beauty standard has evolved to like ethnic features more. Could that have something to do with her new analysis of my appearance? Maybe, or maybe not, or maybe it doesn’t even matter.

I want to decide that if I’m “actually really pretty” now, I was “actually really pretty” then, too. But saying that is easy; I don’t think I’m ready to believe it yet. What I can say though, and what I’m sure the other girl can agree with, is that I am really, really glad not to be 13 anymore.