Growing up ugly
At four years old, I couldn’t determine what was pretty or ugly. Neither was I compelled to.
The world was just colors, shapes, and faces, all blending together into something that simply existed—without labels, without judgment.
At six, I realized that my beauty didn’t fit the standards of those around me. I was called names I didn’t understand, but the way they mockingly joked about my sharp chin and wide face made it clear—it wasn’t something to be proud of. I didn’t know how to respond to their laughter so I simply accepted it, not yet understanding how their words would cling to me for years to come.
Before I knew it, I was 10, already desperately wishing for fairer skin. It wasn’t so much about being conscious of my appearance—it was about wanting to be like the people who were praised for theirs. I observed how admiration was effortlessly given to those with delicate features and porcelain skin. I saw how their beauty granted them kindness, attention, and approval. And I learned that I was not one of them.
At 13, the mockery became a constant voice in my head. Even as I lay in bed at night, I’d spend hours imagining what ifs—if I were prettier, would life be easier? Would I be treated better? Would I feel like I belonged?
It was always easier to be loved when you fit the beauty standards. Easier to be noticed when you were pleasing to the eyes. Easier to be appreciated when they didn’t have to search for beauty within.
By 16, my so-so appearance had degraded into a horrible one—at least, that’s how it felt. I gained weight, had breakouts, and went through the struggles any normal teenager would. But in the eyes of others, these changes were flaws, and their words shifted from teasing to insults that cut through me like burning daggers. Hearing those words every day during lockdown altered how I saw myself. It became so hard to go outside, to meet people, or to join family gatherings. I’m Filipino, so you can imagine my devastation when I was forcibly dragged to a party, only to be met with judgmental looks and criticisms from relatives lying in wait. Their words echoed in my head long after the event ended.
At 17, my insecurities worsened. I knew I was depressed, but it was never diagnosed—because in my household, depression wasn’t real and I was just being dramatic. So I fought internal battles every day, sometimes losing and giving in to self-harm, sometimes distracting myself with anything to avoid acknowledging the problem.
But what else could I do? I wanted to scream, to cry, to be heard—but the world around me was deaf to my pain.
Thankfully, I held on until lockdown was over.
At 18, I returned to school. I always wore makeup to cover my acne because it was all anyone would talk about when they saw me. But little by little, I gained my confidence back. I excelled in academics, no longer chained to the fear of being ugly—because at least in that way, I could prove I was still worthy of love and attention. I found solace in books, in learning, in knowing that my mind had value even when I felt my face did not.
At 19, I realized I didn’t need validation from others. I flew to a different city alone—to rediscover myself, to learn to love who I was the way I deserved to be loved. Instead of chasing people’s approval, I decided to chase my dreams—free from the toxic thoughts that had once controlled and haunted my younger self. There was an odd sense of liberation in walking down unfamiliar streets, knowing no one was watching, no one was judging.
I am now 20 and life still has its challenges. Though I work toward self-love, I recognize that the toxic mindset of those who surrounded me as a child is now subconsciously instilled in my brain. Now that I’m far from the people who once criticized me, I’ve become like them in ways I never wanted to. My beauty standards are shaped by what I was taught was “beautiful,” and unlearning that is harder than I imagined. I catch myself comparing, nitpicking, criticizing, even when I swore I wouldn’t.
But each day is a new learning experience, and I know that one day, I will fully love myself without being tied to these expectations.
Looking at my childhood photos, I wish I could tell my younger self that she was beautiful. That she didn’t need to change. That the world’s cruel standards meant nothing compared to the warmth she carried inside her.
I hope my present self realizes that I have always been beautiful—just as I am.
To my future self: You are beautiful.
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Janine Sabino Magan, 20, is a writer and communication arts student at De La Salle University, she’s passionate about storytelling that explores identity, empowerment, and personal growth. She won Miss Pancontinental International in Vietnam in 2024 and has advocated for youth empowerment and education.
