People often say I look confident. That I carry myself with clarity and assurance. That I speak as if I’ve figured out who I am.
But here’s what they don’t see:
I’m insecure. I have been, for as long as I can remember.
And it’s not just occasional self-doubt it’s the kind that creeps in quietly, every time someone calls another woman beautiful. Compliments meant for others often feel like sharp reminders of what I’m supposedly not. I don’t know why, but I immediately begin comparing myself to them. My face. My weight. My hair. My skin. The way they laugh or carry themselves. I break myself down in silence.
I admire women. I love how they move through the world. There’s something ethereal about the way a woman brushes back her hair, the way she speaks when she’s excited, the ease with which she can transform pain into poetry. If I had another life to live, I’d want to return as a woman again because I love being one.
But I don’t always love being me.
My mother and sister have always been seen as beautiful. People acknowledged it aloud, often and effortlessly. At weddings, in grocery stores, at family events, they were the ones people noticed. I, on the other hand, was the one they complimented for knowledge. “She reads a lot.” “She’s intellectual.” I became the girl who knew her cinema references, who could talk about Freud or Iranian films. I held that role with pride. But in quiet corners of my heart, I craved to be seen as beautiful too.
For a long time, that craving turned into desperation. I used to cry in front of strangers, perform exaggerated emotions just to get attention. I chased validation from people who barely knew me. I went to places I wouldn’t have gone, just to feel seen. Looking back, I hate that version of myself not because she was flawed, but because she was so hungry to be loved that she lost herself.
Why was I like that?
Why did I believe attention was equal to worth?
Why did I think being looked at meant being loved?
Now, I’m trying to unlearn that. Trying to sit with my feelings instead of judging them. Trying to tell myself so what?
So what if I’m not the prettiest person in the room?
So what if I have early wrinkles or if my hair thins or if my skin isn’t flawless?
So what if no one ever said I’m the kind of beautiful that others are?
I am still enough.
I still cry sometimes when I feel invisible. I still get caught in the comparison trap. But I also know I’m growing. Every time I ask myself so what, I step a little closer to self-compassion.
And maybe one day, I won’t ask the question out of pain. I’ll ask it with softness. With laughter. With the wisdom of a woman who finally sees herself not through the lens of others, but through the mirror of her own becoming.
Until then, I’ll keep walking through this life one quiet question at a time:
So what?
