“Hey girl, you’re kind of pretty.”
I was looking in the mirror applying the last bit of makeup before I headed out to work. I paused, looked at my face, and smiled.
“Yes girl, you’re kind of pretty.”
Why is this such a big deal? Well for my whole life I’ve only seen myself as cute. The superlative used for puppies, teddy bears, and other non-intimidating things. For years I have worn the cute badge with honor. My grandmother called me cute as preteen, and assured me in her Southern way that it was a good thing.
“Pretty girls get too much attention. They rub people the wrong way sometimes. But, everybody loves cute girls,” she said.
In high school when the pretty, popular girls came into the room everyone took notice. Overtime I began to get self conscious around pretty girls. Their presence made me hyper aware of overdeveloped boobs, thick hair that never laid straight like theirs, my bushy eyebrows, and my stubborn upper lip hair that looked like a constant five o’clock shadow. I was was silly, quirky, and goofy. I was every guy’s friend never his girlfriend. I was taunted so bad for my upper lip hair once I begged my mother for costly and painful Electrolysis treatments. A process in which electrical currents are sent through your hair shack to prevent growth. It was excruciating. I resolved that I was not pretty, beautiful or anything like that.
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| High School Grad Photo |
Because I felt I was lacking in the looks department I figured I had to have an extra special personality to be accepted. I was a good listener. I did more for my friends than I did for myself. It was the only way I knew how to be accepted by others and be ok with the person I saw in the mirror. I spent most of my teens playing second fiddle to my skinny, much prettier best friends. Back then my inner voice was self deprecating. Always picking at the many thing wrong with myself and trying to find a way to turn it into a joke.
In my twenties, I lost over 30 pounds as I was becoming a television reporter. Even with the weight loss I just felt like a cute girl who managed to get a tv gig. Men checked me out in the grocery store, women rolled their eyes at me. My inner voice told me people only looked at me because I lost weight or because I was a television reporter.
I am now in my thirties, and for the first time really believe that I am not only cute but kind of pretty too.
Recently—-I looked in the mirror and I found something I didn’t know lived inside of me; the acceptance of my own prettiness.
I am overweight, but I know how to dress my figure. I am no makeup artist but I know how to apply makeup to make my skin glow and pop. I am not a model, but I love my full lips, my dark brown hair, and if you get close you can see I have beautiful hazel eyes. I have a magnetic smile, dimples, and thick eyebrows with a natural arch that women envy. I have sparkly white teeth that deserve to be on a Crest commercial. I have three brown scars on my face from my battle with depression that reminds me that I survived it. I have cute feminine hands spotted with freckles. I love my caramel skin and how I turn golden in the summer.
Yes, Lauren Hope aka you are kind of pretty...maybe even beautiful, sexy, or gorgeous.
Feels weird typing that. I’m still getting used to the idea that I am kinda pretty.
I can’t pinpoint what has changed inside of me to accept this about myself, but it feels amazing.
Another thing I am accepting about myself; I am a good person. My whole life I’ve tried to be the version of good my parents wanted, my job wanted or my man wanted. I didn’t need any of those things to be “good”. I am flawed. I am imperfect, but I am good. I am a good person with a beautiful heart that seeks to loves God, and love people.
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