I hoped my daughter would be beautiful. I even sent a wish to the universe for her to have golden hair, captivating blue or green eyes, a radiant smile, and an adorable nose. I would rub my belly and whisper “Charlize Theron.”
Growing up in Northern California, I was surrounded by golden-haired beauties, which made them my closest friends and my worst nightmare. As a first-generation American with European roots, I inherited strong features that made me stand out. As a tall, dark-haired girl with broad shoulders, I felt out of place in group photos. I was often cast as the villain in school plays, teased for looking “different,” and faced harsh comments that chipped away at my self-esteem. The pressure to be perfect in the 1990s was intense, especially when everyone on television seemed flawless—models with perfect noses, luscious lips, and flowing blonde hair.
After high school, I tried every trick to meet those beauty standards and boost my confidence. I dyed my hair blonde, donned pastel hues, and learned the art of self-tanner. I slimmed down to a size 4 and wore lip gloss that left me feeling like a “porn star.” I tried to erase the memory of how I used to look. It wasn’t until my mid-20s that I began to embrace my unique beauty, recognizing what I once saw as flaws as my assets.
When I found out I was having a daughter, I was filled with excitement and apprehension. During the drive home from the doctor, I squeezed my husband’s hand and said, “You’re going to be a wonderful dad. I hope she’s healthy, strong, and a handful just like you.” He smiled and replied, “I hope she’s brave, funny, and looks just like you.” To my surprise, that angered me. I snapped, “No, not like me. Please, God, don’t let her look like me.”
I soon felt guilty for worrying so much about my daughter’s appearance. To process my feelings, I reached out to some of my blonde friends back home. One shared that she never realized her beauty and often called herself “the ugly one” among our peers. Another revealed her struggles with the pressure to be perfect, driven mad by the fear of letting others down. I began to see that my beautiful friends carried their own insecurities.
Eventually, my wish was granted. My daughter is bright, funny, strong-willed, and yes, she’s also petite with golden blonde hair and stunning blue eyes. I adore every inch of her, and she doesn’t resemble me at all.
Raising a “pretty girl” will be an adventure. Strangers often stop us to compliment her looks, but I understand the importance of teaching her about self-confidence, insecurities, and heartache. I believe she is the most beautiful person in the world, inside and out, and I strive to instill that belief in her. She might think, as I did, that mothers are required to say those things. I never believed my own mother.
I hope she learns to appreciate the beauty in others without comparing herself. I want her to speak up when people comment on appearances, as I’ve realized that pretty girls face their own challenges. I’ve read articles emphasizing the need for mothers to focus on their daughters’ intelligence and creativity rather than looks (which I fully support), but I still tell her she’s beautiful every day. It’s important for her to know it, deep down.
Reflecting on my past efforts to wish for my daughter’s outward beauty, I’ve come to realize that she would have been beautiful regardless of whether she looked like me.
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Summary
The author reflects on her aspirations for her daughter’s beauty and the insecurities she faced growing up. Through her personal journey of self-acceptance, she recognizes the importance of nurturing her daughter’s self-confidence and inner beauty while navigating societal pressures. Ultimately, she finds peace in the understanding that beauty comes in many forms.