My daughter approaches me, clutching her vibrant coloring book, its pages showcasing fantastical characters with exaggerated features. She eagerly points to an illustration of a girl with oversized eyes and perfectly contoured lips. “Do you think she’s pretty?” she asks.
This has become a familiar refrain. My daughter is starting to associate beauty with likability, a connection that troubles me deeply. My responses often lack conviction, resulting in a vague, “She looks nice.” But I see that my daughter is grappling with appearance as an important topic, and my evasions only prompt her to dig deeper. “Do you want to be like her?” she inquires further.
“Of course,” I reply, cautious not to dismiss her interests. My hesitance, however, doesn’t escape her notice. “You just need to wear flowers in your hair and grow it long,” she declares, adopting a tone that suggests she is preparing to critique my makeup choices in the future.
While I might be ready for her beauty tips in a few years, today she is just four, and her newfound authority feels a bit misplaced.
Reflecting on my own upbringing in the 1980s, I remember my mother’s indifference to my fascination with appearance. She indulged my interest in styling dolls without concern, allowing me to explore my whims freely. My mother was preoccupied with more substantial worries—ensuring we were nourished, encouraging our reading habits, and helping with school projects. Her lack of concern for my beauty interests allowed me the freedom to play without the weight of societal expectations.
In many ways, her approach was effective. My childhood dreams of beauty didn’t warp my self-image; I grew up to earn a Ph.D. without ever feeling pressured to conform to beauty ideals. Yet, I can’t help but wonder if things have shifted for my daughter. While the dolls I cherished haven’t changed much, today’s media landscape is saturated with unrealistic portrayals of femininity. Streaming platforms inundate young viewers with shows that often emphasize superficial qualities, leaving little room for depth or character.
I know I can limit her screen time, but the damage may already be done. She has absorbed the notion that beauty is tied to acceptance. Navigating this conversation is challenging, especially since I myself send mixed signals. I enjoy dressing her in stylish outfits and appreciate aesthetics, but I worry that this could lead to objectification. Is my pleasure in her appearance merely a byproduct of societal conditioning?
I strive to protect her from internalizing harsh beauty standards that could lead her to feel inadequate. I don’t want her to measure her worth based on looks, nor do I want her to apply those standards to others. I want her to learn kindness and self-acceptance instead.
In a few weeks, we will visit Disney World for the first time, complete with Fast Passes to meet her favorite princesses. However, I have deliberately opted not to schedule a princess makeover for her. While I don’t mind her hugging characters like Ariel, I resist the idea of strangers fawning over her appearance. I want my daughter to feel loved and appreciated as she is, without the conditionality of glamour.
I hope that as she grows, she will connect with characters who embody resilience, independence, and innovation. Just recently, she was pretending to be Rey from Star Wars, a strong role model. I wish we could meet Rey at Disney World; I would proudly display that photo in her room.
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Summary
The author reflects on her concerns regarding her daughter’s developing fixation on beauty and likability, contrasting her own carefree childhood with the more media-saturated environment of today. She expresses a desire for her daughter to learn self-acceptance and kindness rather than internalize societal beauty standards.