As a young girl, I was never camera shy. In fact, I loved the sound of the “click” when the camera flashed. Whenever my mom pulled out a camera, I would rush in front of the lens and strike a pose. As a first child, my parents had pictures of me pinned to the walls, placed over countertops, and even made into little key chains. My mom, a lover of arts and crafts, also organized my pictures inside these thick photo albums. I was a chubby child. I had plump cheeks, and when I wore T-shirts, my stomach slightly stuck out, but none of that mattered to me. I didn’t care what I looked like; I just knew I liked being in the spotlight. However, those photo albums grew thinner as I progressed through middle school, and now, in high school, my mom has completely abandoned that hobby.

Every time she pulls out the camera, it’s the start of an argument. It goes something like this:

“MOM, I am telling you now for the 100th time, please do not take my picture without my permission.”

After making my statement, she starts “lecturing” me about the importance of capturing memories and always ends her argument with, “You will regret this.”

I nodded, but what I murmured under my breath was, “Why can’t you respect my personal opinion?” However, it was more than just a matter of “personal opinion.” I knew I did not like the attention of the spotlight because I was not confident in my appearance. Every time I look at a picture of myself, all I see are flaws. But at the same time, I cannot put my finger on what exactly those “flaws” are. All I know is that I am not tall and slim, or have desirable curves. I do not have a head of glossy hair or a face with chiseled, high cheekbones. Most importantly, I do not fit into the societal standards of “beauty.” Because I did not fit into these societal molds, I felt unworthy and insecure.

It was not until my mom asked me one day how I would define beauty that I was at a loss for words. I did not have an answer because I had never asked myself that question; it did not occur to me that my opinion mattered, too. We rarely think of beauty as something we define for ourselves; instead, it is always about how “others” see me and how “society” deems me. From a young age, I was never one to let others dictate how I feel, but why did I let myself fall into such a trap when it came to my appearance? It is my body and my face, but I let other voices shame me and tell me I am not good enough. My appearance was like an outer shell that hid me from the spotlight and crumbled at someone else’s touch. I look at pictures of my younger self and see the smile and confidence that I lost. I realized my mom’s words that I tried desperately to battle were true. I lost moments in my life because I chose to hide behind the camera. I want to reclaim the power over my appearance. I may not fit into the societal standard of beauty, but I appreciate my body and all it has done for me. I do not need perfection, because I am enough for me.