“She’s too much.”
“She’s extra.”
Through permissible dehumanization, women are assigned the same vague descriptions used to quantify a particular seasoning on a piece of chicken. What her existence is “too much” or “extra” of may often remain untold, but we know that it’s bad. And we know that it’s a potential side effect of self-love—something we strive for in the unforgiving light of fitting rooms, but are threatened to encounter in it’s living, breathing form.
An implied consensus prevails among women that if you like yourself in the Instagram age, there is something demonstrably wrong with you. By virtue of arthritic, daily scroll sessions, your brain should, by and large, be firing on all cylinders of comparison. Rare is the woman liberated from such tendencies, and in turn, she faces isolation in a generation typified by the compulsion to change oneself. Confidence has been re-branded as conceit and humility as insecurity, and strong women are muting their greatness to appease a culture of weak identities.
Behold the tweet that inspired me to address this issue. 231,000 people agreed with Maddie(e) Tatum. I do not, and apparently that’s weird. The very confidence I have built through braces, bullying, and feelings of crushing inadequacy has now become a considerable burden in my life. I have, on multiple occasions, fabricated insecurity so people wouldn’t think I’m full of myself. When my friend tags me in a photo of fake breasts, I could just admire it and move on with my day. But nine times out of 10 I’ll reply, “neeeeeed!” despite being perfectly content with the condition of my chest. This, in turn, makes me question if I “neeeeeed” breast implants after all. Something that was never a source of stress becomes one momentarily, and those moments compound to form long-term insecurities.
Remember this scene from Mean Girls?:
Karen: God. My hips are huge!
Gretchen: Oh please. I hate my calves.
Regina: At least you guys can wear halters. I’ve got man shoulders.
Gretchen: My hairline is so weird.
Regina: My pores are huge.
Karen: My nail beds suck.
[pause. All look at Cady]
Cady: I have really bad breath in the morning.
It is both expected and encouraged to contribute fragments of insecurity to the conversation. The camaraderie of venting about your perceived physical shortcomings creates a twisted respite from battling them alone. This goes beyond healthy self-deprecation; non-participation sends messages of vanity, or just the simple conclusion that we have nothing in common. Women who were otherwise happy with themselves are nitpicking their appearances and fanning the flames of self-loathing just to save face. Neither movement (i.e. body positivity) nor Pinterest quote (i.e. “Another woman’s beauty is not the absence of your own.”) can mitigate the pressure to bury your self-acceptance in casual discourse.
Collectively, women rule semantics. Do you see what we did to the word “literally?” We popularized its modern use as an intensifier! What we’ve done to expressions of self-love among our own kind is so complexly nuanced that it preserves the patriarchal imposition of rules for female speech. You know, the notion that you can say whatever you want! But oooo, maybe a little less like that. And maybe not right now. You know what, just don’t speak. Enter these four scenarios from my anecdotal bank:
- When celebrities and influencers exhibit confidence, they are #goals. Their disposition is deserved and unattainable. When Rihanna says, “I’m the baddest bitch in the room,” we applaud her.
- When people we know exhibit confidence, we police them. Their prose and display mustn’t tip the scale of acceptability. When our friend says something as lukewarm as, “I look great today,” we roast her in a group chat. Or, at the very least, refrain from complimenting her going forward because she already knows she’s pretty.
- When Conventionally Unattractive and/or Fat Girl posts her body on the internet with a corresponding inspirational caption, she is beautiful and brave. She is the keystone of the bridge to inclusiveness.
- When Hot Girl posts her body on the internet with a corresponding inspirational caption, she’s attention-starved, conceited, and needs knocked down a peg. We slam the gavel at her unconvincing spiel, because you don’t get a voice in self-love if you’ve never been rejected.
This is fair-weather feminism. It says we deserve a seat at the table, with the caveat that the table is forbidden to the loud and/or scantily clad. Women in “Nevertheless, she persisted” t-shirts still scoff at the sight of a crop top on a summer day. For how large a scratch we’ve carved across the surface of girl power, we’re still shadily self-regulating to adhere to expectations of modesty, and boxing other women in accordingly. Self-love is preached from digital soapboxes, but when practiced before our eyes, is treated like narcissism. Such leanings are grossly paradoxical and ultimately discouraging.
I want you to imagine a life in which you feel effortlessly confident and self-assured beyond the grips of ubiquitous beauty standards and behavioral expectations. Now imagine that energy being sucked from your pores via condescending encouragement to “tone it down.” If that thought feels like a gut punch, try living this truth. This is my declaration to cease subscribing to the culture of insecurity. I will not sanitize my confidence to avoid gossip or rejection. I know who I am, and that woman is great—and she doesn’t think she’s any better than the next girl. And anyone who describes me as “too much” or “extra”… probably isn’t enough. Insert painted nail emoji.