The Beauty Complex

It’s tempting to let petty criticisms undermine your confidence. Don’t get sucked in.

- Glennon Doyle

I WAS A PRETTY little girl. An early memory: I’m 6 and clutching my mom’s leg while strangers smile down at me, touch my curls, and say, “You have a beautiful child.”

My best friend at the time was John. I registered even then that when adults acknowledged him, they didn’t simply pat him on the head and remark about how cute he was, the way they did with me and the other girls I knew. Instead, they engaged him in conversation, asking about soccer or how he liked school. And he wasn’t shy in his answers, proudly announcing that he’d scored the winning goal or gotten an A on his spelling test. Adults seemed to want to know John. With me they didn’t venture beneath the surface. I learned to settle for that, to smile complacently when complimented and say thank you without offering more.

Allowing myself to be defined by my appearance turned out not to be the wisest choice, as what inevitably follows childhood is adolescence— in other words, awkwardness, acne, angst. At 10 years old, I entered an ugly-duckling phase, and with the departure of my flawless skin and cherubic smile went my identity and self-worth. People stopped telling me I was pretty, and I stopped feeling that I was. If I wasn’t that, I asked myself, what was I? Whereas before I had been at least noticed, now I was neither seen nor heard. I met that invisibility by disappearing further, dropping out of the world and into bulimia for 15 agonizing, silent years.