A Letter To Society: "The Quiet Burden of Beauty."

Dear Society,

There is something that started to weigh really heavily in my thoughts since the beginning of January 2022. It's beauty. More specifically, the physical appearance of beauty in the context of women. Back then, I was going through a major low phase of my life. A few months ago, I had lost Naaz (my last fur companion before Dil). To be more precise, she had gone missing from my father's residence. And just right before that, a few months ago, I had finally gotten done with my divorce that had been going on for quite a few years, which had led to all my blood family relationships distancing themselves from me, as it wasn't the right decision in their head, what I was doing.

Just when I had thought I had finally come out of a battle of years, I thought of giving myself a break from everything and everyone and moved my base to Kasar Devi. Though I could feel something looming, hovering around, in a more esoteric sense, as ever since I was a child, I have sensed energies very well. And I was also sure that whatever was looming around like a dark cloud was something to do with Naaz. She went missing from my father's government residence in Saharanpur, and my life spiraled down like a crazy ball. No stopping. And I knew it was kind of the last nail in the coffin of my life. I knew deep down that how I navigate the coming year would define a lot of what happens for years to come. I knew it was one of those dark nights of the soul. A tower moment. Where you know it will all come crumbling down.

I had to tread that time of my life very carefully, as I was on my way to mending my relationship with my father and the rest of the family members. Even though they hadn't been around in one of my toughest times and I was left abandoned. But that was the asking of my spiritual path. Like they say, you are not what happened to you but what you choose to make out of it. I already knew it was going to be an uphill task because of the complicated family dynamics at hand in our family, which have existed ever since. I knew it was going to take about 4–6 years of constant effort to bring it to somewhat normal. And I was willing to do so. I wanted to do it.

So, when Naaz went missing, I knew I wouldn't be able to grieve openly in front of my father. I would not be able to express myself and my loss, which was okay because any reaction from my end would have undone the last year and a half of work that I had been putting into mending and rebuilding the relationship with him. So, I kept the grief within.

Somehow, exactly around this time, after 3–4 months of Naaz missing, one of my very close friend back then and I started to have a falling out. I saw it coming sometime mid of that year, but what I wasn't expecting was the exchange of words that would go down and what all it would reveal. Nasty words were exchanged. But one thing that really stuck with me was when she said: "people are only friends with you because of your outer beauty and nobody has seen you from the inside. You have a dark heart." It stunned me in that moment, for I hadn't even in my wildest dreams thought of someone being this close to me as a friend and then harbouring such thoughts.

Which definitely was a projection of thoughts and as well an insight into what insecurities the other person had been carrying around. In that moment, I had no idea how to react to it. All I could say was that it's best for us not to be in touch as long as we both haven't healed.

Someone who was already going through a period of major grief, with life throwing one curveball after another for almost a decade—or say ever since I was 5 years old—I came to a standpoint in my life where I decided to take a good look at my life and the people around me. And ever since those words were spoken by my friend (a woman herself), I kept revisiting her words in my head over and over again. For months, I really took her words for real. I started to question my friendships. I started to reach out to some of my old friends and some new friends and really started to ask them why they were friends with me. But nobody said they were friends with me because of my outer beauty. My physical beauty. They all had their own reasons to be friends with me, more so for the human that I am. Yet, the words spoken by her didn't leave me.

I started to distance myself from my friends. And what really shocked me was that just a few days before she spoke those words to me, a stalker who had been troubling me since 2019 had started to text her over Instagram regarding me. So, I was like, more than anything in my case, this physical beauty has only served me in ways which haven't been safe and healthy for me.

It is this beauty, probably, that had me go through multiple situations of molestation all through my childhood, where I was only subjected and made to feel bad by my own family members, where I was only blamed. My education stalled for months in between. And nothing happened to the people who molested me. Interestingly, those people still move around in our family. So when she said what she said, of course she said it mindlessly, without having an iota of how it could have affected me, especially when I was already dealing with long-term chronic PTSD.

So, within a few months, it was another loss for me—losing a friend who I had thought was close to me and who I thought would rather be around and understanding of the situation of what I was going through. Instead, I decided to let her go, for I do not intend to have people who are insecure in their beings. Plus, I saw it in a way where life was really asking me to have a good look at my life and the people around me. I didn't have to be responsible for someone else's anger issues or for not having emotional regulation in life.

I recalled one very specific incident of my life from my school days. My last co-ed school. I was in 7th standard. It was lunch break, from what I remember, either it was early winter or the departure of winter. We were wearing winter uniforms. I was standing in our open ground space in the school. We had a big open space beside the playground, with way too many trees. One could take a good long walk in those open spaces. It was me, another classmate—Swati (that wasn't her original name)—and another couple of boys. I do not remember if those boys were from our class or other sections.

Swati asked what everyone wanted to be when we all grew up. I do not remember what the boys said. I remember everyone discussing Hrithik in that school's cheerful and playful environment. His first movie had just released then—Kaho Na Pyaar Hai. Everyone had enjoyed watching that movie back then, especially his dance moves. Swati said she wanted to be a pilot when she grew up. I was impressed with the clarity in her thoughts and probably that's the reason I remember her words.

When she asked me, I had no such clue about what I wanted to be in life. But I do very clearly remember saying that I wanted this world to be a beautiful place to be, to live in.

And now, when I look back, I see how beauty and aesthetics have been a major part of whatever I have done, even in day-to-day life. I always found beauty to be of utmost power in so many ways.

When I speak of beauty, I am not only speaking of the beauty of a human's physical appearance. I am also speaking of the beauty that is hidden in the ruins, only visible to the eyes of someone who really adores beauty and makes space in their lives for beauty, day to day, moment after moment.

They say beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.

When we encounter beauty in nature—a river, mountains, light through leaves—it often brings:Stillness—the mind quiets down.Awe—a sense of something larger than oneself.Softness—emotional openness, even vulnerability.Belonging—feeling part of something whole.Longing—sometimes a quiet ache, like remembering something you can’t name.

Natural beauty doesn’t demand anything from us. It allows us to exist without performing. That’s why it often feels healing.

But when we speak of human beauty, it is different because it’s not neutral—we attach meaning, desire, comparison, memory, and identity to it.

When we perceive a physically beautiful person, emotions can include: attraction/desire, admiration, inspiration, insecurity or comparison, curiosity, intimidation, lust, and warmth, or even discomfort.

Beauty in humans doesn’t just exist—it interacts with our psychology.

Beauty in a woman, as perceived by many men, often begins as a visual recognition but quickly becomes layered with meaning shaped by culture, upbringing, and personal psychology. In everyday life, this perception subtly influences behavior: in public spaces, a beautiful woman may draw longer glances, unsolicited attention, or heightened politeness; in workplaces, she might be perceived as more charismatic or approachable, yet at times less competent or taken less seriously—an interplay of admiration and bias that operates globally, from corporate offices in New York to startups in Bangalore.

At home, beauty can become normalized or even overlooked over time, yet it may still quietly shape expectations, pride, or possessiveness within family dynamics. In non-romantic relationships, such as friendships or professional interactions, men may unconsciously offer more help, patience, or engagement toward women they find attractive, sometimes without realizing the bias. Internally, being around a beautiful woman can trigger a mix of attraction, self-awareness, comparison, or even restraint, depending on the man’s confidence and conditioning.

For example, a man might become unusually attentive in a casual conversation at a café, more accommodating toward a colleague in meetings, or slightly performative in group settings—all subtle shifts that reveal how beauty, while seemingly superficial, moves through social dynamics as a quiet but powerful force.

Between women, the perception of beauty often moves through quieter, more layered emotional currents. When a woman encounters another woman she finds beautiful, the response can range from genuine admiration—an appreciation of her features, style, or presence—to a more inward turning, where comparison gently or sharply arises.

In everyday spaces, this can subtly shape interactions: in public, a beautiful woman may be observed with curiosity or silent acknowledgment; in workplaces, she might be respected and admired, yet also, at times, perceived as competition—especially in environments where attention and validation feel limited. Among friends, beauty can either deepen bonds—through celebration, sharing, and mutual upliftment—or introduce unspoken tensions if insecurities are present.

Globally, across cultures, this duality persists: a woman in Paris, Delhi, or New York may equally feel inspired by another woman’s confidence and presence, while also momentarily questioning her own. What makes this dynamic distinct is that women often perceive not just physical appearance but the energy of another woman—her ease in her body, her self-assurance, her authenticity.

And so, beauty between women is rarely just about how someone looks; it becomes a mirror, reflecting both appreciation and self-awareness, sometimes expanding one’s sense of self, and at other times quietly challenging it.

Beauty tends to bring to the surface many layers of human behaviour.

Patriarchy hasn’t just influenced beauty standards—it has structured them over time, turning beauty into something that can be ranked, rewarded, and, in many ways, controlled. Historically, societies shaped by male authority have tended to define female beauty in ways that align with male desire and social order: youth, softness, fertility, and compliance.

These traits weren’t only aesthetic—they signaled something deeper within patriarchal logic: reproductive value, adaptability, and lower perceived resistance. Over generations, this translated into a persistent preference for younger women, not simply as an individual inclination but as a normalized ideal. Youth becomes associated with “freshness,” malleability, and possibility, while age in women is often unfairly linked to decline—creating a cultural fixation where younger and younger women are idealized in relationships, marriage, and even social visibility across the world, from media industries in the West to matrimonial cultures in South Asia.

This fixation is not just biological—it is reinforced daily through storytelling, cinema, advertising, and social conditioning. Men are often taught, subtly and overtly, to equate youth with desirability and status, while women are taught to preserve or mimic youth to remain visible and valued. The result is a loop: desire shapes standards, and standards shape desire.

Colourism adds another powerful layer to this dynamic. Across many cultures—particularly in countries like India, but also globally through Eurocentric influence—lighter skin has been historically positioned as more “beautiful,” “refined,” or “worthy.” This has roots in caste, class, and colonial histories, where proximity to power was often associated with fairness.

Under patriarchy, these hierarchies became embedded in how women are evaluated: a lighter-skinned woman may be perceived as more desirable in marriage markets, more presentable in public roles, or more “acceptable” socially, while darker-skinned women often face bias, invisibility, or harsher judgment.

What this does is shift beauty from a personal or aesthetic experience into a social currency. It affects who is approached, who is chosen, who is respected, and who is overlooked. A man’s perception of a woman’s beauty, in this context, is not purely his own—it is filtered through generations of conditioning about youth, skin color, and femininity. And for women, this creates an uneven landscape where beauty is not just about how one looks, but how closely one aligns with these inherited ideals.

At its core, the fixation reveals something deeper: patriarchy tends to value women not as evolving individuals, but as symbols—of youth, status, purity, or desirability. And beauty becomes one of the primary ways this symbolic value is assigned and maintained.

Patriarchy doesn’t just shape how men see women—it quietly shapes how women come to see each other, and even themselves. Over time, it has turned beauty into a kind of unspoken hierarchy among women, where worth feels unevenly distributed.

This creates subtle fractures in even the closest relationships—between sisters, friends, colleagues—where love and care coexist with comparison and insecurity. A woman may deeply admire her friend, yet still feel a quiet contraction within herself; she may celebrate her, yet question her own place in the room.

These feelings are rarely spoken, but they linger—in glances, in silences, in the things left unsaid. The comparison is not always chosen; it is conditioned. And over time, it doesn’t just affect individuals—it alters the texture of relationships, making them feel close on the surface but not always deeply anchored in emotional safety.

In this structure, a woman who fits dominant beauty standards—especially one who is conventionally attractive or lighter-skinned—often finds herself in a paradox. While she may receive admiration, attention, or opportunity, she also becomes hyper-visible in ways that are not always safe or respectful.

Among other women, she may sense distance, guardedness, or the need to shrink herself—to be “less intimidating,” more humble, less expressive of her full self—just to maintain ease in the space. This shrinking is not always conscious; it becomes a learned way of protecting relationships, of not triggering discomfort in others.

At the same time, in professional environments, her beauty can become a silent complication. She may be taken less seriously, her competence questioned, or her achievements attributed to her appearance rather than her ability. She may also face situations where men in positions of power blur boundaries—offering opportunities that are entangled with personal interest, making her constantly assess what is safe, what is appropriate, and what might cost her dignity.

Even when she rises to a certain level, remarks—subtle or explicit—can follow her, from both men and women, reinforcing the idea that her presence is always being interpreted, not just respected.

What emerges is a heavy duality: beauty becomes both privilege and burden. It brings visibility, but also objectification. Many women experience being seen more through a lens of desire than as full human beings—reduced to bodies, to projections, to fantasies.

This constant external gaze can create an internal tension, where a woman becomes hyper-aware of how she is perceived, often adjusting herself to manage that perception.

And when a woman is not only physically beautiful but also intelligent, articulate, and self-assured, the discomfort around her can intensify. She disrupts multiple expectations at once.

In a system that is more comfortable with women being one-dimensional—either admired for beauty or respected for intellect, but not fully occupying both—she can be perceived as “too much.” This often leads to subtle pressures to tone herself down: to speak less, to soften her presence, to make others feel less threatened.

These pressures don’t always come aggressively; they come through social cues, exclusion, backhanded compliments, or the simple withdrawal of warmth.

Over time, all of this shapes not just how women move through the world, but how they relate to each other. Instead of feeling like allies, women can feel like they are navigating an invisible competition for validation, safety, and space.

The tragedy of it is that the very system that places them in comparison also keeps them from fully recognizing their shared experience. And so, many relationships remain partially guarded—functional, affectionate even—but not fully surrendered into trust.

In this sense, beauty, especially within a patriarchal framework, becomes something a woman has to carry. Not just as an identity, but as a negotiation—of space, of safety, of perception, and of belonging.

Patriarchy hasn’t just shaped beauty standards—it has industrialized them.

What began as a social preference for certain kinds of femininity—youthful, fair, symmetrical, “pleasing”—has, over time, been scaled into a global, multi-billion dollar beauty economy that thrives on one core mechanism: making women feel that how they naturally are is not quite enough.

The system works by first defining a narrow ideal, then constantly shifting it—through media, advertising, celebrity culture, and now digital filters—so that it remains just out of reach. In that gap between “how I am” and “how I should be,” an entire industry sustains itself.

Today, this shows up in increasingly intense ways. Skincare routines that were once simple have become multi-step regimes; cosmetic procedures that were once rare are now normalized; faces are subtly—and sometimes dramatically—reshaped to align with a globalized aesthetic template.

Lips, noses, jawlines, skin tone—everything becomes adjustable. And slowly, a strange uniformity begins to appear, where individuality blurs and it becomes harder to recognize the person beneath the layers of intervention. What was once a face becomes a project.

What makes this more complex is that many women genuinely experience these practices as empowerment or self-care. And in part, that feeling is real—because choosing for oneself, taking control of one’s body, or wanting to feel confident can be deeply valid experiences.

But the harder question sits underneath: where do these desires come from? When the same “choices” are being made by millions of women across cultures—to look younger, fairer, slimmer, more symmetrical—it suggests that the desire itself is not entirely free, but shaped by a shared conditioning.

The language of empowerment can sometimes mask the pressure to conform, making it harder to question.

Patriarchy sustains this cycle subtly. It doesn’t force—it normalizes. It creates an environment where opting out feels like neglect, and participating feels like care.

So, a woman may believe she is choosing freely, while also carrying the quiet anxiety of being left behind, overlooked, or deemed less worthy if she doesn’t keep up. In this way, insecurity becomes internalized, and the industry doesn’t need to impose—it simply responds to, and amplifies, what has already been planted.

The shift I am pointing to—from natural beauty to something more “filtered”—is especially visible in the digital age. Filters don’t just enhance; they train the eye.

They set a new baseline of what a face should look like—poreless, sculpted, evenly toned. Over time, reality begins to feel insufficient compared to this edited version. And so, the desire moves from temporary digital alteration to permanent physical change. The line between the real and the ideal collapses.

What gets lost in this process is not just “natural beauty” in a superficial sense, but diversity, texture, and truth. Skin colour, lines, asymmetry, age—these are not flaws; they are markers of life, geography, ancestry, and experience.

But under a homogenized beauty ideal, they become things to erase. And in trying to become universally acceptable, women can feel increasingly disconnected from their own unique selves.

So the burden deepens: beauty is no longer just something to have—it becomes something to constantly maintain, upgrade, and defend. And in that constant effort, many women are not just changing how they look, but negotiating their sense of worth through an external lens that was never fully their own to begin with.

There was a time when I believed beauty was something to be done—maintained, scheduled, managed. A weekly ritual. A monthly discipline. Something that required appointments, precision, and consistency. Something that, if neglected, would quietly slip away.

The first time I got nail extensions was in Bombay, back in 2015. It was an emerging trend then, and like many others, I was curious. I had seen other women wear them, their hands looking polished, complete—almost like an extension of perfection itself. So I thought, why not?

But within hours, something felt off. By the second day, I knew it wasn’t just discomfort—it was disconnection. I couldn’t feel properly. Not my own skin, not the texture of things, not even the simple relief of scratching an itch. My hands looked a certain way, yes—but they didn’t feel like mine. Those 48 hours were filled with irritation, frustration, and a strange sense of having lost something essential. As though, in trying to enhance my body, I had distanced myself from it.

When I finally went to get them removed, I saw what they had done to my nail bed. That was the first and last time. Or so I thought.

Years later, sometime in 2022, for my brother’s wedding, I got eyelash extensions. Somewhere along the way, I had forgotten that earlier lesson. But the body remembers what the mind chooses to overlook. By the time I was at the wedding, I had already begun pulling them out—along with some of my real lashes. There was a kind of urgency in wanting them off, as if my body was rejecting something foreign. When I returned, I removed them immediately. That was the moment I knew—no more extensions. Not again.

Since 2017 onward, after moving to the mountains, something began shifting. I had started reducing my visits to the salon. Waxing became less frequent. Then optional. Then unnecessary. I let my body hair grow. What was once a weekly or monthly routine—manicures, pedicures, facials, hair treatments—slowly began to dissolve.

By 2018, it had become something else entirely: an experiment. Not just with beauty, but with perception. I began stepping out without “preparing” myself for the world. No waxing. No facials. No curated version of myself. And I started observing—not just how I felt, but how others responded. Especially men. It was revealing.

Some approached, only to later make remarks about my body hair. Some lost interest. Some seemed confused. And in that confusion, I found clarity. It became a quiet filter. If a man could not accept me as I am, then his presence in my life would only add another layer of stress. And I realized—I didn’t need that.

What I had earlier thought of as “self-care” began to reveal itself differently. Those salon visits, those routines—they weren’t entirely for me. They were shaped, in large part, by an idea of beauty that existed outside of me. They gave me temporary confidence, yes. But that confidence came with maintenance. With anxiety. With the need to return, to fix, to keep up.

It was a loop. And stepping out of that loop was not just freeing—it was unsettling at first. Because when you stop performing beauty, you begin to confront what remains.

Over time, something shifted. Not overnight—but steadily. I became more comfortable in my own skin. Not because I had “improved” it, but because I had stopped negotiating it constantly. There was a quiet confidence that emerged—not from how I looked, but from no longer needing to look a certain way.

And yet, the question remains.

Do we really believe in natural beauty?

We speak of it more now. We see women embracing grey hair, textured skin, unfiltered faces. There is a visible shift. But is it acceptance—or is it just another aesthetic?

Because alongside this movement, the beauty industry continues to expand at an almost aggressive pace. New products. New procedures. New standards—subtle, but persistent. It feels as though even “natural” now has a curated version. A controlled imperfection. A presentable authenticity.

So what is this obsession?

Perhaps it is not just about beauty itself, but about what beauty promises—acceptance, visibility, desirability, belonging. And when these things feel conditional, beauty becomes a way to secure them.

But somewhere along the way, the line has blurred.

We no longer know what is real and what is enhanced, what is natural and what is constructed, what is felt and what is performed. The filter is no longer just on the screen—it has entered perception itself.

And maybe that is where the real question lies.

Not whether beauty exists.

But whether we can experience ourselves—our skin, our bodies, our presence—without constantly measuring it against something external.

Because the moment beauty begins to take away our ability to feel—to feel our own touch, our own comfort, our own ease—it stops being beauty. It becomes something else.

And walking away from that, even quietly, even imperfectly, might be the closest we come to returning to ourselves.

And so, I find myself returning to that moment in 2022—to those words that were spoken so casually, yet carried such weight: “people are only friends with you because of your outer beauty.” For months, they unsettled me, made me question my relationships, my presence, my very being. But today, I return to them not with confusion, but with clarity—and with questions that extend far beyond just one person or one incident.

What have we, as a society, done to beauty that it no longer feels like a space of joy, but a ground of judgment, comparison, and quiet suffering? Why is it that something meant to expand us has instead begun to shrink us—especially women? Why do so many women feel the need to dim themselves, hide themselves, or constantly alter themselves just to feel accepted, safe, or worthy? Why do conversations among women—friends, sisters, companions—so often circle around improving, fixing, enhancing, rather than simply being? When did beauty become a competition instead of a celebration?

And what of the women who are seen as “beautiful”? Why does their beauty so often become a burden to carry—inviting attention that is not always respectful, creating distance where there could have been connection, and making them question whether they are truly seen beyond what is visible? Why are so many forced to negotiate their safety, their dignity, their very existence, simply because of how they look?

But more than anything, I want to ask this—not just to society at large, but to us, as women.

When another woman stands before you in her beauty—whatever that may look like—what rises within you? Is it admiration, or is it comparison? Is it expansion, or contraction? When did her presence begin to feel like your absence? And why?

When we say to another woman, “you are beautiful,” what do we really mean? Are we celebrating her, or measuring her? Are we seeing her, or placing her within a scale we have been taught to follow? And in that moment, are we also—quietly, unconsciously—measuring ourselves?

If beauty continues to create distance between us, to make us guarded instead of open, competitive instead of connected, then perhaps the question is not just about how beauty is defined—but how it is felt within us.

Because maybe the real shift will not come from changing standards alone, but from changing the way we hold each other in our gaze.

Until then, I wonder—can we ever truly say “you are beautiful” without first asking what that means within ourselves? Love, Afrah