How My Makeup Addiction Led to Confidence
Makeup addiction may be masking how you really feel about yourself. (Photo: Riccardo Tinelli/Trunk Archive)
I hit puberty early at nine years old and was desperately self-conscious of my acne. My mom allowed me to use foundation and powder to cover the deep, red blemishes that spotted my skin. Even with no skills whatsoever at applying cosmetics I thought the mask was a vast improvement to my natural face. Little did I know the temporarily self-esteem boost was just the beginning of my makeup addiction.
By high school, I had already mastered a full makeup routine while my classmates were just dabbling in cosmetics. I tested everything I could afford, becoming infatuated by bronzed eyelids and a rosy flush, carefully cultivating a “look.” Cosmetics—and specifically how they built a facade of perfection around my insecurities—eventually took hold of me. This was my drug, and I was hooked. And by college I started spending with little to no budget. I passed it off under the guise of, “If it makes you feel better and you enjoy it, why not?”
But amidst all the giddy, girlie fun, I was holding myself to an impossible standard, afraid to show anyone what lay beneath the surface. I curated a very specific version of myself for the world to see that wasn’t at all representative of who I was inside—a lit lover, a college sports geek, a Christian, a writer. Instead, appearance-based words like “pretty,” “classy” and “feminine” started to stick to me. Women would stop me on the street and ask, “Where did you get that lipstick?” Men would often comment on my hair, or ask if I was wearing glitter with amused grins. I reveled in these reactions initially—it can be fun to be noticed. But I was also a slave to the girl in the mirror.
Jenna Birch wearing a full face of makeup.
I never left the house unless my hair was straightened and spritzed with volumizer. If I was going to get gas I’d have to arrive in full makeup. I put on lipstick for yoga. I wore foundation to the doctor’s office when I was exhausted and sick. And at the height of the madness, I’d wash my face two to three times a day and reapply full, fresh makeup. I didn’t even like looking in the mirror at my bare-faced complexion. I felt ugly.
Makeup was also a way of holding people at arm’s length. We all have reasons to resurrect walls in our lives, insulating our hearts from potential damage caused by uncontrollable others. Lifelong, occasionally debilitating, bouts of chronic illness was my excuse. At 20 I was finally diagnosed with fibromyalgia, and I hurt physically, everyday, for most of my life. Never wanting others’ pity, I hid my symptoms well—sometimes with a strategic swipe of blush for color, or another layer of mascara to open up my tired eyes. I didn’t let others close enough to see, and if I could protect myself from emotional damage, I would. It was an instinctual reaction to physical pain, and the people and things that scared me most.
Dating was difficult. I struggled to connect, creating distance between every guy who wanted to come close. Makeup was a shield of perfection I used to scare all guys off—until I met my now-ex-boyfriend. During the early days of our relationship, he used to ask about my makeup, specifically why I wore it and if he could see me without it, to which the answers were always “because I want to” and “nope.”
“I’ve just never dated anyone who put as much effort into all of this as you do,” he said once, waving his hand over my face in a circular motion with a smile, as if he could wipe off my foundation with a magic wand. I knew he’d like to. I simply shook my head. “You should do what you want,” he said. “But it does make me wonder what you’re hiding under there.” I knew he was half-kidding, but curious. So, he never stopped asking, casually, gently. “You don’t need it,” he would say. “You’re beautiful without it.” I scoffed, thinking he couldn’t know that. I didn’t even realize he might be talking about something other than cosmetic beauty.
I didn’t understand why he cared so much. If it made me “happier,” then why not wear the my favorite MAC lipstick? He pointed out that my self-tanner wasn’t doing anything to help my inexplicable, year-round hand rashes. I was still wearing mascara when my eyelashes were literally falling out due to one of my health conditions, a form of alopecia that only affects lashes. “Don’t you just ever want to take it all off?” he asked. I knew inside I really did, but I wasn’t brave enough.
Jenna Birch goes makeup-free
Then one hot summer evening, I felt my foundation, mascara, blush, and lipstick dripping off and decided it was time. So, back at my ex’s place, I removed every drop of makeup from my face, emerging from the bathroom feeling an intoxicating mix of bravery and vulnerability. Part of me was convinced I’d lost all attractiveness, but he smiled. “You are more beautiful without it,” he said. “Honestly.”
I finally realized I was beautiful for so many reasons. For surviving bouts of chronic pain, for pursuing the tough-but-fulfilling career I loved, for always taking the path less traveled. Not one of them had to do with mascara or blush. The lesson would last longer than our relationship, but thanks to his support I no longer hid under layers of foundation for a simple run to the drugstore, because I finally saw that impossible, imaginary beauty ideal only ever existed to me. A new perception of beauty began to take root where the old, toxic one lay: lipstick and foundation are fun and pretty, but my own skin is vulnerable, beautiful and strong.
The more you reach for that impossible ideal on the outside, the farther away from it you will feel on the inside—I know too many women who live this way. I used to be one of them. It took years of hearing about inner beauty to understand what it truly was, months to break down the barriers, and moments to finally shatter the mold—but now I get it. It was about letting down my guard, and loving myself all along.
Related:
How Alopecia Ultimately Gave Me Confidence
