The less makeup I wear, the more beautiful I feel.

There was a time when I could not leave the house without a full face. Being a teenager bound to makeup was an experience that introduced to me a life abounding with insecurity. It began with the acne, then the hyperpigmentation, then the censure, and the hyper-fixations, all before I came to face the ultimate adversary: social media.

I was thirteen and plagued by perfectly primed images of women with gorgeous skin and with makeup that matched it: clean, smooth, pristine. I desperately longed for this. Thus began a not-so-methodical curation of my makeup arsenal. it started with a concealer, then a foundation, but that didn’t look right; it wasn’t the velvety, supple canvas that I’d seen online. Perhaps a skin tint? That burns. Oh, what’s this, a new pimple? I’ll just cover it up. More foundation, more concealer. Color correcting? I’ll need a new palette for that. Why are all of the shades so light? Why is nothing in my color? I’ll just buy a darker pigment and mix them. I’ll try a bit of contour for my nose. God, I look dirty. I’m grey. I’m orange. I’m at a loss.

I don’t look like myself.

What did I look like to start? I was beautiful, though mildly unkempt, but what else can be expected from a 13-year-old who spent most of her time outdoors? I had bright espresso eyes, caramel skin, and hair so soft and shapely that it became, over time, regarded as an accessory in and of itself. This didn’t mean I didn’t experiment with makeup before my encounter with social media. I adored a lustrous lip gloss, a clear mascara, and a bit of brow gel. I still felt like myself, fundamentally unchanged, but intentionally kept. Groomed.

However, I soon learned that if you only seek satisfaction in others, you can never truly satisfy yourself. I longed for another face. Distinct features. I thought that makeup could achieve that for me. But it’s not a permanent solution, and I was using it for the wrong reasons.

If you asked me “Why do you wear makeup?” I would tell you that it gives me a sense of confidence. If you asked me on a deeper level, I would tell you that makeup has always been a splint used for the broken image I have of my own beauty and self-worth. Upon even deeper introspection, I’ve come to realize that makeup for me has never been about self-expression, art, or any other noble procurement. I wanted to hide the beauty that I was for a beauty that was naturally unattainable.

So, one day I stopped wearing it entirely, though not without the occasional passive-aggressive pushback. Suddenly, I “looked so tired”. I “looked sick”. Was I ok? I’ve “stopped taking care of myself”. No, I’ve allowed myself to be vulnerable. Free. Still, I was encouraged to put it on and pull myself together, to hide my scars and rouge my cheeks so that I might present myself as more pleasant, more desirable, and eventually, more self-conscious of my bare skin. I was done with all of it. And it changed my life fundamentally.

Suddenly, I could study the nuances of all my features without distress or repulsion. I had a mole above my right eyebrow that had somehow evaded my sight on the days I inspected my painted face. My skin shone brightly with various soft hues; a living kaleidoscope of melanin slowly aged by the sun that framed my face with shadow and structure in all the right places. After some time, I could see myself and appreciate my natural beauty, which of course never depreciated under the guise of makeup, but nonetheless shown brighter all on its own.

Now, at 23, I still find that there are days when I want to find the beauty in my bare face, and there are days when I want to add a bit of color here and there after marveling at the gorgeous women who have made their makeup into their personal artform. It’s all about balance.

Balance, self-love, and beauty in autonomy.

“To look in the mirror at any given moment and observe my own face is a comfort. It is no better or worse than any other’s. It simply is. It is something I would not change without condemnation of it – without placing the opinion of another above my own with no merit except that of the validation of an utter stranger” – An excerpt from my personal journal.