I’m someone who almost always wears at least some makeup when I’m around other people. Not because I feel like I have to, but because it’s part of how I show up in the world—like choosing an outfit that fits my mood, or putting on jewelry that feels like me. It’s a ritual, a habit, a quiet layer of self-expression.
But on the rare occasion I go without, the reactions are usually the same: Are you okay? You look tired. Are you feeling sick? The absence of makeup isn’t just noticed—it’s interpreted. As if my default face must be a signal that something is wrong. It’s strange how expectation shapes perception, how the face people are used to seeing becomes the “real” one, and anything else feels like a deviation.
Then, one night, someone simply asked, “Are you not wearing makeup?” I confirmed, bracing for the usual concern. But instead, they just said, “You look really nice.”
It was such a small thing, but it landed differently. Not because I needed validation, but because it reminded me that sometimes, the way we see ourselves isn’t the way others see us. Maybe it was the softness of the moment, the lighting, or the comfort of just being—but in that instant, I realized that my face, with or without makeup, is still me. And sometimes, that’s more than enough.