By Phoebe McBurney

I can still remember the first comment to this day: “Don’t you ever brush your hair?”

This is where my self-hatred marathon began. My hair was thick, frizzy, curly, so I lived predestined to hear comments like the one above, or variations of it. Pathetic words to get upset about, I know, but it wasn’t what little me wanted to hear whilst eating my packed lunch. Being the only girl in my class with this kind of hair, I desperately craved the sleek, straight locks of my classmates, who clearly didn’t understand two-hour-nit-comb torture or the scent of detangling spray. 

At the time, still blessed with childhood innocence, these types of comments brushed off me (pun intended), and four-foot me would proudly stand up and tell the world that I didn’t care what it had to say. That’s the funny thing – when you’re a child, the entirety of your life involves running around, laughing, and disappointing your parents with your dirtied school uniform that needs washing yet again. Growing up in the noughties, all I cared about was Bratz dolls, having fun, and kidnapping innocent insects to trap inside my brand-new ‘bug houses’. 

Little did I know that my hair criticisms were only the beginning. This brings me to the next insecurity, which began when nine-year-old me was running around the playground, giggling, until I skid and smashed my face against the concrete. 

Grazes and cuts crawled up my arms, legs, my back, my sides, blood drizzling in the creases. I remember a crowd of kids and teachers circling me. I was towed to the nurse’s room, where she phoned my parents to come and pick me up. She handed me a small brown envelope, like a golden ticket but not quite so lucky: a piece of my front tooth lay inside it. It had broken straight in half. Yes, I broke my tooth by falling over my own feet, and that permanent scar became fuel for my next barrage of criticisms.

At the age of ten, I was gifted with what every teenager dreams of: acne. As the first person in my class to get spots, I naturally stood out like a sore thumb. I remember the confusion, the utter disgust I felt. It was only a small spot – adult me would thank my lucky stars. The next seven years of my life consisted of stripping bare the skincare section of Superdrug, trying every product they sold to no avail. I tortured my skin until it itched, burned, peeled, until red blotches spread across my face, bright against my pale skin. “Spotty”, “ugly”, and “pizza-face” were thrown at me (hardly original). Rosacea and freckles were also a problem. To my gym teacher’s annoyance, I refused to tie my hair back because it showed too much of my face. Every morning, I dedicated half an hour to masking my face in war paint, only to fight the same battle every day. 

Then, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, puberty hit me: my thighs thickened, my bum grew, and my boobs saw daylight for the first time. I was soon branded “the fat girl”, my body too big, my face too chubby, my boobs too small. As the comments continued, I considered diets. I’d even buy the most padded bras I could find in an attempt to balance out my supposedly fat figure. 

Throughout my teenage years, I wasted hours pondering what was wrong with me, or rather, what I’d been taught was wrong with me by those around me. It consumed me. With every mirror and shop window, I’d cry. In every photograph, my hands constantly hid my face, my smile. I felt disgusting. No matter what I did or what I changed, I could never be ‘good enough’, by others’ definition or my own. 

My whole life, I grew up viewing myself as something that needed to be ‘fixed’. Eventually, I realised – I could wear inch thick makeup, lose or gain any amount of weight, and I would still receive the same treatment. 

The truth was, looking back, that I wasn’t fat, I wasn’t ugly. All the things that bullies had led me to believe were lies. I was never the problem. All my life, I grew up thinking that “I wasn’t like the other girls” because they had skinny bodies, beautiful hair, and clear skin. But the other girls had insecurities; the other girls sat in front of the mirror picking themselves apart too. 

Now, as an adult, I question the power that society holds over women’s appearances. Even as a young girl, there is a standard to be met: princesses are conventionally beautiful, and princesses are good. To be good, women must therefore be beautiful. We consume media of how women are ‘supposed’ to look from so early on, and any inability to follow these restrictive rules makes us substandard. As an adult woman, the price of merely existing comes with a long receipt of impossible beauty standards. With the rise of photoshop, facetune, and plastic surgery, it’s even harder to see ourselves as beautiful and worthy of love as we are. 

Over time, I’ve learned that one of the most powerful things we can do is love ourselves in a world that tells us not to. I came to realise that the parts of me that made me unique (the parts I used to hate) were special, and with the growth of body positivity movements, I was able to find women who looked like me – curls, acne, and all. There’s beauty in blemishes, stretch marks, and wrinkles. My own journey has shown me that media representation is so important; we need diversity of skin types, scars, body types, and unique features. We need to destigmatise perceived imperfections. 

Today, I hold my arms out to you. I appreciate your flaws. I see your beauty. You’re not ugly. You never were.