Last week, I couldn't help but reflect on the past few years of my life. It's incredible that I'm already halfway through college, when it seems like yesterday I was stepping into my freshman dorm.

Despite growth over these past two years, I still find myself in moments of insecurity. One of the areas that I need improvement in is how I feel about my appearance. Although at 20 I've finally accepted I'll never be model-thin or have flawless skin, I still can't help but feel sub-par. There is always something that could be better, and I often get mad at myself for not "trying hard enough" with my looks.

As I was cleaning out my laptop, I happened upon the essay from two fateful years ago, and it seems I could stand to take some advice from my past self. Feeling attractive shouldn't be your everything.

From the day I took my first toddle, dirt was my trusty companion. My fingernails were crusty, my legs a roadmap of scrapes and battle wounds. Around the block, I deemed myself the neighborhood warrior. I'd channel my inner "Goonie" with the neighborhood boys as we tackled the tallest trees and braved the chilling woods behind Mr. Barker's house. I transformed the soft fabric of Sunday dresses into dashing capes, giggling gleefully as the material caught the wind behind me. My face flaunted an overbite; my hair was an uncontrollable lion's mane of wiry, kinky curls. The childhood days were pure euphoria, and I spent the nights barefoot and sweaty while untouched Barbies stayed pristine in my closet. I guess you could say I didn't have a care in the world up until the tender, hormone-addled age of 14. One day, with no provocation at all, science partner extraordinaire Jenny Matheson (name kindly changed) snickered that I was “ugly."

I wish I could say I gave a hearty laugh and shrugged off the comment from my so-called chum, but the word pierced my previously solid armor. My soldier status crumbled as I cried to my parents when I got home. No matter how many times Momma Moore cooed, “She's just jealous," I began to feel inferior as I gazed in the mirror.

The blonde beauties prowled the hallway, leggy and lean. Their eyes were lined with brown or black, and their hair was a silky smooth contrast to my coarse locks. I saw the “pretty" girls in school making life look easy, balancing their books in their manicured fingers. Soon, I wanted in. I ditched my Chuck Taylors for ballet flats and singed my curls straight. After a couple days of Oompa Loompa, I finally figured out foundation. I skipped breakfast and avoided my new worst enemy, the “Carb."

What seemed like small changes to me caused a transformation from the peer group around me. Girls presented compliments and invited me to sit with them at lunch. Smiles from the classroom bachelors made my heart skip, and I felt acceptance as a girl who could possibly nab a guy. But still, no matter how much lipstick I wore or how flat I got my stomach, I didn't feel any happier, or more attractive for that matter. Even worse, I felt like a projection of something that wasn't me.

After a couple years of floral patterns and caking my face, I finally tired of the façade. Gradually, I've regained the tomboy of my youth. My love handles have their love back, because I've reunited with my good friend Coldstone. I've stopped wearing makeup on my scars. The twirl of my hair is finally returning, though it was a slow process after the flat-iron subjugation.

To this day, I'm not sure what prompted my friend to call me ugly. Maybe it was the freckles on my nose, or the way I arm-wrestled boys instead of playing inside. Maybe it was my unpierced ears, or the studying I'd do instead of joining in the makeovers. It could even be my snort-filled laugh, or the times I neglected to wear tight clothing. But if this is the criteria for unappealing, then I guess I'll never be beautiful. I'm more than proud to be unsightly."