We were taught to smile before we were taught to speak.
To suck in our stomachs before we could form full opinions.
To be admired before we were ever truly felt.
To pose before we were invited to arrive.
We were raised to be beautiful.
Not to be here. Not to be whole.
Not to take up space in our wild, loud, unfiltered selves—
but to decorate the room. To soften the edge. To shimmer just right.
Presence was not our first language.
Performance was.
The Inheritance of Image
It started quietly.
Not with words, but with glances. With praise for looking “put together.”
With warnings to “fix your hair,” “adjust your posture,” “don’t frown.”
With the unspoken rule:
Be pleasing.
Not challenging. Not deep. Not too much.
They taught us how to contour our cheekbones,
but not how to communicate boundaries.
They praised our grace, our politeness, our restraint—
and called it maturity.
But it wasn’t maturity.
It was emotional exile dressed up in lipstick.
We inherited image like a crown and a muzzle.
Beautiful. Quiet. Safe.
The Absence Beneath the Surface
We could be stunning in photos and still lost in our own lives.
We could charm a crowd and still not be known by a single soul.
Because presence isn’t about who sees you—
it’s about you seeing yourself.
And we didn’t learn that.
We learned how to be desired, not how to desire.
How to be looked at, not how to look within.
How to be chosen, not how to choose ourselves.
So many of us moved through the world
like beautifully wrapped gifts no one ever bothered to open.
We learned to smile while starving for attention that touched the inside.
The Cost of Always Being Seen but Never Met
When you’re raised to be beautiful,
people assume you’re okay.
They assume you don’t ache. That you don’t long.
They project perfection onto your face
and forget that there’s a whole story behind your eyes.
They compliment your glow and ignore your grief.
They love your light and flinch from your shadow.
And after a while, you start doing it too.
You stop bringing the hard truths.
You shrink your sorrow into silence.
You become so good at being beautiful
that you forget how to be here—raw, breathing, and real.
Reclaiming Presence
But there comes a moment.
A crack. A shift. A soft rebellion.
When your soul gets tired of being curated.
When your body aches to be felt, not just viewed.
And you begin to whisper:
“What if I don’t smile today?
What if I speak before I smooth myself?
What if I stop trying to be beautiful and just try to be true?”
That moment is terrifying—
but it’s also sacred.
Because that’s the moment you step off the pedestal
and back into your skin.
You stop being art for someone else’s walls
and start being a home for yourself.
Presence Is a Return
Presence isn’t glamorous.
It’s messy, unpredictable, honest.
It means showing up in your contradictions,
your questions, your anger, your joy.
It means letting people see you when you’re not ready.
It means staying when you want to run.
It means no longer performing your value
but embodying it.
And slowly, you begin to notice:
You laugh louder.
You cry without apologizing.
You move with intention, not approval.
You are no longer a distant object in someone’s fantasy—
you are a living, breathing experience.
A voice. A heartbeat. A truth.
A New Legacy
We were raised to be beautiful.
But we’re teaching ourselves to be present.
To value being felt over being flawless.
To choose depth over display.
We’re learning that our worth does not live in mirrors,
or on Instagram,
or in someone else’s compliment.
It lives in our bodies. Our boundaries. Our breath.
It lives in how we come home to ourselves—
again and again—without shrinking.
And perhaps the most beautiful thing now
is not how we look when we enter a room,
but how we stay when it gets real.
We are no longer ornaments.
We are no longer decorations.
We are not here to be palatable or perfect.
We are here to be present.
Fully. Fiercely. Finally.
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