Picture Imperfect by Sanya Tinaikar (15, Pennsylvania)

When I was younger, I used to play dress-up. I would throw on my slightly outgrown Cinderella princess costume—a hand-me down from cousins—over my pajamas first thing in the morning, completed with a moth-white headband that would gently pinch my ears at the sides. And I clomped around the house with my low heels letting everyone know tacitly when I made an entrance. In retrospect, I distanced myself from traditional attire because I wanted to wear what I felt comfortable in—something that gave me a sheltered and secure feeling.

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Not until eighth grade did I truly differentiate my thinking. Clothing wasn’t just a statement of what one liked; it had another value: money. Brands were a foreign concept to me. I would hear people say, as if it was a matter to brag about, that they spent over $100 on clothes and seemingly superfluous—to me, at least—accessories at the mall over the weekend. My Target runs for last minute spring shopping at most summed up to $30. In the midst of conversations like these, I would feign familiarity and suppress the pang of discomfort that welled up in my chest.

Now, as I surf through Instagram, I double-tap my way through a vineyard of students posting loud bikini pics coupled with influencers no more than 10 years old smothered in highlighter and bold winged eyeliner. In lieu of pictures, some peoples’ feeds are proudly donned with aesthetic montages of them with their friends in a superficial filter that bask in likes and uplifting comments. I scroll past perfect conventional girls supposedly my age—blonde-haired, blue-eyed—looking like full-grown women: hair done intricately, not just put up in a loose ponytail, whole-hearted breasts that show in their lavish apparel as they stand tall and confident, flaunting their assumed age. 

I think about social media toxicity—the way my cousin warned me that ‘it’s not a safe place’: the glamour, the age disparity, the competition. Why do we still cling on to this juggernaut of depression and pain? 

It’s ironic: teenagers, on the cusp of young adulthood, seemingly want to look more mature—the hair, the clothes, the makeup. But once we’ve crossed the line at a certain age—when hair begins to fall and we shed like a dog, when those few creases on your face and neck start to multiply, when the fresh and youthful skin that you worked so hard towards seems to wane—we do everything in our power to reverse time. To reverse it back to our most proud self—we become obsessed with youth. 

I wonder if this is societal posturing. Teens—no, children— partaking in cosmetic pleasures and social media modeling, in turn earning millions of dollars, triumphantly negating the traditional 9-5 work regime of their parents. My mom always says: “Study first. Work hard now; you will regret not doing it later.” But does that really matter? According to Forbes, child models can make up to $50,000 per year. Nineteen-year-old model Kaia Gerber had her idyllic life primed and ready-to-go at 10 years old, earning more than I could ever imagine or comprehend at that young an age. I think about the numerous late nights I spend in my room studying last-minute for an exam. I can’t help but feel unaccomplished compared to not just her, but all the other ambitious kids who earn money that lasts for a lifetime. 

My feed is narrowed down to the small suburbs I live in. I scroll down further only to see how my classmates balance a myriad of extracurriculars: basketball players candidly lurching to shoot a free throw with such seamless perfection; lithe ballet dancers arching their petite feet in a permanent parentheses with such dexterity, yet so elegantly. Some stand with a grin that's being pulled all the way to their ears as they gloat with their MathCounts T-shirts and trophies. My friends’ profiles are laden with bios of achievements and successes that notably define their characteristics. Staring at my screen, I wonder if I’m falling behind. I think to myself if it’s even right to think like this: I should be proud and happy for others' successes, not self-absorbed in my own ambitions. Why do others sharing their proudest moments result in feelings of dejection and apprehension? But nevertheless, I leave a like.

I think about how we program ourselves to display the image we want—the way we want people to perceive this immaculate conception of ourselves. We burnish our imperfections and tuck away any signs of our natural physiognomy, practically becoming savants at making ourselves look unblemished to such an extent that we can’t even tell what part of ourselves is real or not. 

We love entertainment that involves ourselves. While we compare ourselves to our classmates and influencers our own age, we want a sense of fulfillment on our side: we want to be the person others compare themselves to. We have an insatiable thirst for always being perfect, for picking at ourselves, which is only slaked by likes. It’s not about whether you are happy in the skin you wear, it’s about whether you are content with the person you want to be. Perpetual self-judgement lurks the pages of social media in an attempt to reach an unrealistic state of excellence.

Would my five-year old self, who was so carefree and nonchalant, think about what others thought when she played dress-up? 

This toxic comparison with what we don’t have is human nature; doesn’t the grass always appear greener on the other side?

How does she look so chic in this picture? Where did he take that photo? Did she use photoshop? 

How do I reach perfection?

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