"Why do I have to be perfect? Why can’t I just be real?"

It seems like everyone has an opinion on girls’ bodies. Why is it that a distant relative or neighbour deems it appropriate to tell me I’ve lost weight? Or that my dress doesn’t “look good” for my body type? They say it’s out of love and concern - that commenting on the way I look is for my own good. Society has conditioned us to believe that these comments are okay, that it’s normal to tell someone how they should look. But how do we react? God forbid a child dares to tell an elder that their words are inappropriate, that they’re harmful. Because then the only person in the wrong is you. So you keep quiet and nod or you quietly thank them for their unsolicited advice. Anything else, and it’s “Log kya kahenge? Treat your elders with respect, they know better.”

And so, we’re silent. We do as we’re told. “Go to the gym! But don’t lift weights, you’ll look like a boy.” Be thin, but not too thin. Look healthy, but not overweight. Wearing oversized clothes is our escape. We’re expected to be “perfect.” “Expected”, as in society collectively took the liberty to tell us how to be. Thin waist, big ass but no stomach. No makeup, because it’s “deceptive,” but no acne. Be a contradiction, or no one will marry you. Why are we expected to change ourselves for others? Is it so hard to believe that I can dress for myself?

There’s no solace in social media either - watching influencers tell us we’re perfect, and then seeing the comments on their videos calling them ugly, criticising them. It’s a vicious cycle, really - one that crosses generations, one that has been so far embedded in our psyche that it’s unlikely we’ll ever escape. Until we do, we’re forced to tune out the noise, telling us how we look, telling us what’s wrong with us.

We say “love yourself,” but constantly compare ourselves to people on social media. It’s either that or succumb to the judgements of adults who claim that they mean well. Why is it so hard to find a middle ground between the toxic positivity and the constant scrutiny? It seems as though the only alternative to the shockingly intrusive comments is falling prey to the endless affirmations, reminding me that I’m perfect. Why do I have to be perfect? Why can’t I just be real?