Last month, I was gifted the Glossier Pro Tip liquid liner* and out of curiosity, I put on black wing. A black wing liner without a smokey eye or any shadow. It brought me back to when I used to wear a black feline flick liner everyday, so much so that applying them just became muscle memory; even my eye lids could feel when they were slightly off.
But sometime between 27 and 28, I decided I didn’t need it anymore. A black cat eye was my way of coping with insecurities I had regarding my face. I liked how they emphasized the darks of my eyes and elongated the almond shape. I felt prettier with liner.
Me at 20 applying liquid liner. Can’t believe I dug this photo out.
At first, I had some rough days. I would catch myself in the mirror and immediately regret not putting on liner that morning. Other days where I would shame myself for not having fuller, longer eyelashes - something that is and was completely out of my control. Or just shake my head and ask myself where did that confidence come from? The confidence in thinking I was presentable without liner?
After a few weeks of these fleeting moments, I started to take that question seriously. The word confidence. Confidence. Confidence. At 27, it was a trait that a lot of people somehow associated with me.
“You exude confidence.”
“You have so much confidence.”
“You seem so confident.”
And each time anyone said that, I vigorously shook my head and replied, “no, no, no. It’s all a farce.”
But was it really? In my adolescent and teenage years, it wasn’t a farce. It was true. I had no confidence in myself, at least not in most of myself. I wasn’t the smartest, I wasn’t the prettiest, I wasn’t the best writer or singer or creative mind. I was just okay at everything. At times, I would find myself thinking that even my personality wasn’t special. My parents, my teachers, even my peers constantly urged me to have more confidence. So I truly believed that I was not a confident person.
at 23 years old.
at 24 years old.
at 26 years old.
at 27 years old.
Looking back though, I don’t think that I lacked confidence. I think I believed I wasn’t worthy of that trait, of being confident. I associated my value with what I lacked rather than the things I had to offer, or the person I foundationally was, or even on the hope of the person I had the potential to become.
I spent so much of high school trying to move away from the insecurities that had formed within me during middle school, only to feel lost, not good enough, lacking. Then I spent the majority of college pursuing things that I wanted to pursue, without the watchful eye of my parents or the judgemental minds of my peers. This, of course, came after one semester of partying too hard and sleeping through the majority of my classes.
During that first semester, I was with a group of dorm mates with whom I desperately wanted to fit in. They drank and smoked and made references to tv shows, books, and bands that I would only come to appreciate in my late twenties or maybe not at all (and that’s ok!). They hung out late into every evening and still somehow managed to not only get to class on time but also get top marks. They were who I thought I needed to be to feel normal, and not the overly introspective “weirdo” I was.
One night before heading out, one of the girls and I made a pit stop to the bathroom. Being my desperate, pandering self, I insisted she go first. While she was peeing, I took a glimpse at myself in the mirror. I needed to make sure my hair was neatly pinned back, my eyeliner wasn’t smudged, my muffin top wasn’t spilling out of the skinny jeans that really weren’t me. I didn’t look happy but I told myself it was because I was drunk.
At 20 years old. These two photos are from my Summer abroad studying in England.
It was the first time in my life I felt confident enough to skip the liner - an effect of being around people who shared similar interests and valued me for me.
When the girl got out of the stall, I cooly asked her to wait for me and she said sure. Only, when I called out to her to ask here about the nights’ plans, there was no response. By the time I had flushed, washed my hands, and exited the dorm, the only trace of that group was whispered chatter as they headed down to the gazebo by the on campus lake.
I could have run after them and pretended I was okay with it, like it never happened. But I didn’t. I turned around, went back to my dorm room, ripped off my jeans, opened a bag of honey mustard pretzels, hopped into my bottom bunk, and watched Stepford Wives (the Nicole Kidman version).
Maybe it was seeing Nicole Kidman fight for what was right and seeing all those brilliant women return to who they were, or maybe I was just fed up with being tossed aside and left behind, but the next morning I decided I would no longer jeopardize my college education or compromise who I was just because I didn’t have the confidence to be who I wanted to be.
The next semester, I registered for English and art classes that I wanted to take, auditioned for an a cappella group (sadly, didn’t get in and that’s ok!), signed up for cabaret troupe (a highlight of my undergrad years). The next year, I fervently got my required classes out of the way and discovered the costume shop and on campus non profit fashion show. It was around that time, too, that I started hearing the word confident being thrown my way. I didn’t believe it then, but I knew I was on the right path.
at 25 years old.
A friend once told me - It’s the way you carry yourself. You’re unapologetic about your loud laugh, you don’t second guess the lip color you’re wearing, there’s no doubt in the way you style yourself.
I reflect back on who I was every time a friend or even new acquaintance told me they found me to be a confident person. What was I doing or acting or being at that time?
Because inside, all I could ever think about was - is my fupa covered up enough? Is my eyeliner in tact? Did I use that word correctly? I hope my hair isn’t flat. I hate that my face isn’t symmetrical. I wish my boobs were smaller. I wish I was skinnier, and taller, and more eloquent.
It’s really funny how time can be such an aid to healing when you are so actively working toward mending those wounds. And eventually that healing just becomes growth.
I can’t remember the last time I purchased a black liquid eyeliner. The one I currently have in my collection (that is most exclusively used for IG looks) was a gift from a friend who had no use for it.
I still think I look prettier with a black flick. But I feel more myself without one.
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