On Sunday, just two weeks ago, I scrolled through my Pinterest feed until I was so fed up, I wanted to cry.  

The Monday after that, as I walked to class, I scanned the faces of people around me and felt nauseated. They were everything I wasn’t. 

On Tuesday, I opened my Instagram and logged out not even a minute later.  

Wednesday came and I lay in a puddle of self-hate and feelings of unworthiness. I picked and prodded at every flaw I knew had until finally, I grew tired. I spent the rest of the week in a box of self-pity. 

On Sunday, just last week, I made my decision. I stood in front of the mirror and announced it to my sister; “I’m going to be ugly!”  

She raised an unimpressed brow, “You already were.”  

It was the best news I’d heard all year.  

On Monday, I raised my hand in class. I stumbled over my answer and looked at anything but the professor. When I was done, he simply said, “Good,” and went on with class. My answer wasn’t right, but no one laughed, no one even cared. I wondered why I always did. Being ugly wasn’t so bad. 

On Tuesday, I posted my first ever picture on Instagram. The first comment was from a friend telling me I’m ethereal. I wondered what they saw that prompted that. But I’d decided to be ugly, so I accepted the compliment.  

On Wednesday, I smiled in the mirror. My teeth were large and crooked, and my gums showed too much. It took all my will to keep smiling. I’d decided to be ugly so this shouldn’t matter but it did. Eventually, I grew grateful that I even had teeth. I decided that I’d rather have ugly teeth than sick ones.  

The rest of the week was full of doubt but more than that was gratitude. I was alive. I was ugly. When I accepted it, nothing really mattered anymore.  

On Sunday, just today, I didn’t conform. I stepped out of the box and looked outside.  

The outside was vast and beyond anything I could imagine and everyone I’d admired was there, doing as they desired. All it took was accepting my ugly.