I’ve always wondered who I would be without my skin, my features, even my face. Without every perfectly curated cell making up the smooth surface of my lips or the ridges in my nails. Without every fingerprint or every individual hair on my head. I’ve always felt like our appearance is the foundation of almost every aspect of our lives. Who are we without our costumes?

As my eyes vigorously glance over those same features—my lips, my hair, my skin—my life stares back at me in the mirror. Each vein, like a vine, wraps itself around me, deeply rooted in my own selfishness. The vein that turns into vanity as I sit at one. Who am I to think my looks are above all else, when society has encouraged this way of thinking for so long? Though I like to believe I can blame it on others, the truth is, I have willingly chosen to drink from a glass I knew was poisoned. I have been so eager to participate.

I don’t just hold myself to standards—I hold others to them as well. Inviting them to the poison tea party that I am hosting. I do this through judgment, through bias, through sifting through every feature—their eyes, their skin, their face, even down to the ridges in their nails. It’s as intimate as reading a diary because appearance can tell you so much about a person. Whether they are tired or well-groomed. Whether they are put together or falling apart. Every aspect of a person is perceived through the premise of their looks.

But one thing I’ve learned is that I am sorely mistaken. I have misjudged again and again.
Admitting this flaw of mine is a hard thing to do. I am letting people—you—see a side of my character that isn’t, well, pretty.

I’ve spent so much time thinking about myself. Thinking about ways to improve, about taking advantage of every ounce of confidence I’ve ever felt. Those moments still come at a cost—the constant and overwhelming need to be seen as better. And yet, it wasn’t until I finally reached a few of my so-called standards that I realized it had changed nothing.

This need to achieve what I had romanticized became my entire identity. So when I stood in front of the mirror, it wasn’t a moment of admiration. I wasn’t soaking in my so-called beauty. Instead, I felt immense grief—for all the time I had wasted and sacrificed.

Now, I stand in front of the mirror knowing that, though the world places immense value on appearance, it is not more valuable than my time, my health, or all the wondrous things life has to offer.

To whoever is reading this: Though you are beautifully crafted by God, it is not in your appearance that He intended for you to place your identity.

To anyone struggling with vanity, you are not crazy for wanting to fit into the standards that society—or even yourself—has created. But real beauty, and I mean real beauty, has absolutely nothing to do with hair, skin, or even the ridges in your nails.

Much love,

A selfishly vain teenager.