thoughts on feeling ugly.
I see you hun, cracking open your mid-range pinot grigio and making love to a packet of honey-soy chicken chips, ready to whisper your well-intended cheer into my big old ear.
“Bree, you’re not ugly. You’re unique.”
At ease, fam. I’m not here for platitudes or performative self-love rituals. This is a blog drafted in the eye of the storm, rooted in a place of centredness, curiosity, and the kind of confidence that comes from not giving a poo about surface level perceptions anymore.
Multiple studies have shown that if you’re pleasing to the collective eyeballs of society - a symmetrical face, evenly distributed body, bleached bumhole*; you receive higher income than your ‘less-than’ attractive peers, along with more job opportunities.
Of course, everyone has their struggles. Beautiful people don’t get a free pass on hardship, and many hot people are targeted and tormented for their perceived ‘pretty privilege’. But for today, this blog focuses on the experience I personally am closer to: feeling like the equivalent of a walking thumb.
Reflecting on my own family is a curious thing. My wife is gorgeous. My son? A tiny handsome human. I often feel like the awkward brother from The Corrs, just here to round out the family tour. And yes, despite a newfound sense of confidence, I still sometimes compare myself physically to others. It’s human. Social comparison is baked into our psychology in order to survive earth.
However, I do reckon ‘feeling ugly’ is about more than just negative social comparison. Any feeling of lack is often deeply personal, and echoes stories from our past.
How often growing up, did I receive affirming words for the things I did?
How often was I told I had lovely eyes, and a unique sense of fashion?
I dressed exactly like Zac Hanson (top-tier swag), yet I cannot remember ever hearing “I think that you are beautiful, little one.”
How we experiment with our looks and meet our physical selves, is often tied to the younger self and its perception of worth (as well as society's dribble). Was your wee one ignored? Was the love they received conditional? I often forget how much my inner adult still needs to care for that sweet, Hanson-loving sausage.
So to little Bree, here’s a protective mentor with some sage old wisdom.
To hell with the societal demands. Damn the visual standards. Poo the silly distractions that keep you chasing perfection like it’s a prize.
You’re more than the skin that wraps your soul. Play with your fashion, dance like an idiot, and learn that you are worth more than your vessel. Perfection is costly to the soul, how long can we even afford it?
Now for some good news little one. Very soon you’ll step into an authentic life, and it won’t be the mirror moments that make it. It will be the messy, tender, ridiculous bits. The life residing in major mistakes, deep laughter, raw rejection, and moments of genuine love.
That’s where your beauty lives. Not in your symmetry or smoothness, but in your ability to embrace the imperfect chaos of being alive.
Fin.
*inaccurate, just wanted to write bumhole.
