I Didn’t Come Here to Be Pretty—I Came to Be Real

I Didn’t Come Here to Be Pretty—I Came to Be Real

Blog Article

I used to think “pretty” was a purpose.
That if I could just look right, sound right, behave right, I’d finally belong.
I thought prettiness would protect me—
That if I made myself easy to love, I wouldn’t be left behind.

So I became what the world rewards:
Polished. Pleasant. Painless.

I smiled through discomfort.
I bit back truth and called it grace.
I adjusted the volume of my emotions, trimmed down my needs, and softened every sharp edge.
I curated myself into something palatable.

And for a while, it worked.
People liked me. Admired me. Wanted me close—so long as I stayed small.
So long as I didn’t ask for too much.
So long as I kept being pretty.

But I started to disappear inside that praise.
Because “pretty” is not the same as seen.
And “likable” is not the same as loved.

Eventually, something in me broke. Or maybe it finally woke.

I looked in the mirror and thought:
I didn’t come here to be looked at. I came here to live.
To speak. To move. To feel.
To take up space not for decoration, but for meaning.

I didn’t come here to be pretty—I came to be real.

And real is messy.
It’s tear-streaked and loud.
It’s sacred anger and inconvenient truth.
It’s joy that can’t be contained, and grief that doesn’t ask for permission.

Real is honest. Real is human.
Real isn’t always admired—but it is always alive.

So I stopped shrinking.
Stopped contorting myself into what’s comfortable for others.
Stopped mistaking approval for worth.

I chose honesty over harmony.
Depth over daintiness.
Self-respect over silence.

Because I finally understood:
Pretty is fleeting.
But real—real stays. Real grows. Real heals.

So no, I didn’t come here to be pretty.
I came here to be real.
And that is more than enough.

In order to see visual content on how to use all of this advices properly, you can visit the next site arabxn.

Report this page