We Can’t All Be Beyoncé

I hate the media. That’s right, I’ve said it. I hate it because of what it has created. The media has created a standard of which beauty is defined, and we’ve all conformed to it. We’ve all become followers of this fake convention of stick thin figures and perfectly aligned facial features.
We’ve been taught to hate what we see staring back at us in the mirror because we don’t live up to the expectations of society. We’re constantly reminded that we’re not good enough as we are because we’re not size 1 models with protruding cheekbones, or have a thigh gap when our feet are together.
But who has the right to tell society that we’re not enough? Why is it okay to set standards that people kill themselves over trying to reach?
I’m sick of hearing people say that they hate themselves because they don’t look a certain way.
I’m sick of watching friends cover up their mirrors because they can’t bare to look at themselves, or see them swallow back diet pills so they can finally get the attention they’re begging for.
What people don’t understand is that our bodies are temporary. They will age and they will wrinkle and sag. We won’t have them anymore. So why should we spend all this time being miserable with ourselves trying to obtain the perfect body, when we won’t have it in 10 years down the road? The only thing we will always have is ourselves. Not our bodies, but our minds and our hearts, our ideals, our morals, our memories. How can we appreciate them if they’re tainted with hatred and disapproval? We were not put on this earth to live up to impossible standards. We’re not here to lock ourselves in the bathroom so no one can hear us cry, or to skip meals because our calorie intake was too high. And we’re not here to spend our days comparing ourselves to the faces that take over the media.
I used to stand in front of the mirror with my shirt up just despising what I was seeing. I would count calories, not eat for days, and exercise until I’d feel like passing out just because I thought I wasn’t good enough. Just because that boy didn’t like me back, and because I didn’t fit into those skinny jeans, and because I wanted to be told I was beautiful by someone other than my mom. I wanted to feel the same love that those beautiful girls at school got because I craved approval.
But how can I get approval from others if I can’t get it from myself? I didn’t do anything wrong, but still, I felt like I would never be good enough, only because I didn’t fit the standards that the media set.
That’s the flaw in society. Conventions. We can’t let society tell us what we have to be because it’s the same society that preaches for peace, but endorses war. The same society that says abortion is wrong, yet judges teen parents. We live in the same society that promotes the freedom of education, yet increases tuition every year. Society is clueless. So why are we still listening? Why are we trying so hard to live up to standards in a society that can’t even live up to its own? We are so willing to accept the flaws of society, but not of ourselves. Ironic.

What we’re not told often enough is that we are perfect, and we are amazing, and good, and flawless. We are all those things because we’re real and we exist and we breathe and we live.
Look back to all of those times that people broke you down, to those times you cried yourself to sleep or tried to run away, or had every reason to break down, but you cracked a smile.
You have gone through hell and back, and you’re still here. Isn’t that amazing? Isn’t that worth anything at all? Hell couldn’t tear you down, and neither should the media’s standards. Nothing should tell us what we should look like, or how we should act, or what we should do. We are the makers of our own lives and we deserve to make a fucking happy one.
So next time you see a slice of cake with your name on it, eat it. It’s fucking delicious. Who the hell has the right to care about how you maintain your body? You’re gorgeous. And you always will be. You’ll be the one laughing when people lose their figures with age, and regret not enjoying life, because you only have one. You’ll be the one looking back on the days you made count because you made choices that made you happy, regardless of what everyone else thought. Because in the end, you’ve accepted that not everyone can be Beyoncé, but you can be just as good, or even better just by perfectly being you.

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