Learning to love and accept ourselves is a journey that we all must embark on. It’s not always an easy one, and it can be filled with ups and downs. For me, the journey towards self-love took a detour when I became fixated on my appearance. It consumed me, making me hate my face and constantly comparing myself to others. It wasn’t until a close friend’s thoughtful message that I realized I needed to make a change.
“If you want me to hide any photos, let me know.” These were the words my best friend messaged me after sending me the link to his wedding album. I was one of the bridesmaids, and it was a beautiful and intimate ceremony. Despite all the happiness and joy, my friend knew that I would be worrying about how I looked in the photos. It was a kind and considerate gesture, but it also made me realize how miserable I had become.
I couldn’t keep living like this. The constant fear and anxiety I felt every time someone took a photo of me had become overwhelming. I couldn’t even remember when it all started.
I used to be indifferent about my appearance. I knew I had nice features, and I came from a family of beautiful women. In my early 20s, I could easily get free drinks. But somewhere along the way, during the pandemic, I started hating my face. I would avoid mirrors and delete any photos my partner took of me, even the candid ones of me reading or snuggling with my cat. I would cry at the sight of my own face, and my friends stopped taking photos of me or showing them to me.
I constantly called myself ugly. The only time I liked my face was in selfies. In those, I had control over the angle, filter, and pose. I could present myself in the best possible light, but only in photos. In person, I was still filled with fear and self-loathing.
I would hold my phone at an angle, angling it from above to get the “best” (read: slimming) version of myself. Then, I would choose a filter, usually a funny one with patterns or silly writing. I convinced myself that I wasn’t falling victim to filters because I wasn’t taking them seriously. But in reality, they were doing a number on my self-image.
In a recent study published in Computers in Human Behavior, researchers Makenzie Schroeder and Elizabeth Behm-Morawitz explored the impact of beauty filters on body image. They found that face-slimming beauty filters on one’s own image are more harmful than watching someone else use them or using neutral color-changing filters. People who used the slimming filter preferred the filtered version of themselves and felt significantly worse about themselves as a result. The authors suggested that beauty filters encourage us to compare our real selves to an artificial version, leaving us disappointed with our appearance and potentially leading to mental health issues and body dysmorphia.
This study hit close to home for me. I knew I needed to let go of filters, as hard as it was. It took time, and I still occasionally make photos brighter because I worry about my skin looking dull. But for the most part, I have let go of the urge to filter my photos.
I also stopped taking selfies. As a member of the MySpace generation, it was a habit for me to take photos of myself a few times a week. But to overcome my self-loathing, I needed to stop constantly thinking about my appearance.
Ultimately, it’s just my face. Who cares? I started letting my loved ones take photos of me again and stopped being stubborn about it. I allowed myself to see what I looked like through their eyes.
On a recent trip to Prague with my partner, he took a photo of me in a restaurant. I was tired, a little anxious, and ready to go to bed after dinner. But in the photo, I look happy. It’s not the most flattering photo of me, but it’s one that I remember feeling content and warm in. I remember the noise of the restaurant, the pizza we shared, and the butterflies in my stomach knowing I was in a city I had been dreaming of for years.
I realized that always being or looking beautiful isn’t the point. Accepting that I may not like my appearance at times isn’t the end of the world. It’s a part of me, and it’s
