I was force fed the doctrine that being pretty was the only thing I should ever want to be. I fought to keep out the gruel that told me that my body was more important than my brain, my heart or my dreams. That above all being beautiful was the secret to happiness. The very essence of my being screamed and kicked against the suffocating weight of the cage that threatened to erase my personhood with its objectification.

A smaller pill told me I was already pretty. This one went down with less pain, but it scratched my esophagus, leaving trails of uneasiness that percolated in the corners of my brain. Unsteady and unsure. My head spinning, not knowing what the difference is between being told you aren't pretty enough and hearing you're actually pretty enough in the same day.

"Pretty enough". What does that even mean? How can one phrase hold the lives and happiness of so many in its unyielding hands. A strong black cloud of confusion and doubt swirls around and it feels like either way you look at it your worth depends on pretty. But why? What if I could just be, without needing to know whether or not I'm pretty. What if the comparisons, the shaming, the feelings of inadequacy didn't need to overwhelm us?

In a deep breath I could free myself from pretty and be seen for the things that make up the essence of me. Seen for my thoughts, my laughter, for the way I love and the dances that I do when no one is there to watch.