Friend I worry about you, I see the sadness behind your laughter, the weariness on your shoulders.
Leave it behind, leave it at the door, come see what the winds have in store-
Meet me in the meadows.
Do you remember when we were children?
We would spend our days running in the grass, hunting for fox holes and stirring up flocks of sparrows.
Even the call of rain wouldn’t deter our infatuation with the untamed and free. We would huddle against that bluff under the old oak tree and share sweet rolls we’d stolen from the windowsill.
Meet me in the meadows.
It’s been years, we haven’t spoken since we were ten.
You showed up on my front porch, the weight of the world in the bags under your eyes. You didn’t ask for money, food, or a place to stay.
You know I would have given them all in a moment if you had simply said the word.
Instead, you had one simple request;
“One more time, would you meet me in the meadows?”
(Artwork by unknown artist)
~
Author ~ Madeline
Date ~ June 30th, 2026
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Content Notice: "If I were Beautiful" contains topics surrounding society's ideals for beauty, primarily brought on by media portrayal, as well as the negative impact of social media.
If you are struggling with self image, self worth, or being comfortable in your body; your outward appearance does nothing for who you are on the inside. Kindness is worth far more than the "ideal" beauty standard of today. <3
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Today I sit on my favorite swing, overlooking the sea. I wish I had the state of mind to leave my smart-phone behind, but the instinctual response when that specific short tune is played catches me by surprise. . . as it often does.
"Hey everyone! Feeling cute today, thoughts?"
The post was harmless enough, passive tone, self portrait of a young woman in her car, a blueberry bubble tea cup pressed against a dimpled smile, ringlets of blonde framing a perfectly heart shaped face and petite neck, trailing to a loose low-cut blouse that highlighted the curvature of her athletic form.
So why did it bother me so?
I stared at that image for God knows how long, a mix of jealousy and sadness filling my heart.
Finally, I tapped the power button and tossed the device to the soft arms of the grass.
I knew why it bothered me, I simply did not want to admit it.
She is beautiful.
I am not.
I don't mean to suggest I loathe the image I see in the mirror every morning, on the contrary, I see my fathers' eyes, my mothers' cheeks, and the marks of days spent by the seaside, how could I bring myself to hate those things?
However, the girl in the image, the one with hundreds of likes underneath a frustratingly unedited photo, she is the one the girls envy and the boys desire, not I.
How do I know?
More accurately, how could I not?
I lack the perfect blonde hair, springing in naturally forming ringlets.
I lack the sapphire blue iris's with the matching thick lashes.
I lack the dimples, the sparkling teeth and plush lips.
I lack desirable form, the developed chest and gently sloped hips.
I am not blind to the stolen glances- some of coveting and some of craving, that lavish an attractive person when they enter the room. Nor am I blind to the dismissal of my own entrance, unless I am the only female to be found nearby.
So I ask the quiet sounds of nature, what would happen if I were beautiful?
Would I finally find myself in a relationship with a man who dotes on my appealing form, who loves my outside and in?
Would I walk with more confidence and relish the looks cast my way?
Perhaps I would be more willing to snap a brief photograph of myself and send it to an online community, knowing it will be met with adoring compliments from strangers who owe me no positive regard, who could be counted upon to be brutally truthful in their commentary.
What would happen, if I were beautiful?
The voice of my father calls to me from the porch steps of my secluded home, beckoning me to join him for supper. I know what he would say, if I asked him my question.
He would say;
"My darling flower, you are already beautiful."
Yet the knowledge of the fact brings little comfort, he is understandably inclined to find his own daughter beautiful, even if she were not- by the world's standards.
I settle down to our pinewood table, hands clasped by my father's calloused palms as he says grace over the food.
I pause, reminded to be grateful for what I have, what I've been given, and to find joy in that which is long lasting, not fleeting as youth's appeal.
Yet as I lay in bed, the twinkling string lights casting soft glow on the peaked ceiling, I find myself opening my phone and gazing at the image of that perfect girl, and wishing. . .
-slips in and sits down in corner- I’m tired of everything. I’m tired of being tired. I’m tired of life. I’m just… I’m so tired of it all. -buries face in hands- I don’t need answers I just… I wish it would get better Yk?
It feels like my body is being ripped into a million different directions.
I can't explain it any better than that, I just- everything feels like it's loud, I can't stop rocking back and forth, my mind is racing and I'm clinging to it's back like a rider on a wild stallion.
I hate it. I hate that my mind is like this. I never asked for this, I don't want it. I don't even see the upside, at least in movies the hero gets a super power to balance out the weaknesses, in my case it feels like I got the kryponite without the powers.
I wish it would all just stop. I wish I could sleep again. I wish...
I guess it doesn't matter what I wish now does it? This is life, whether I like it or not. The options are either give up, or take a single step forward at a time, even if it means diving headlong into a storm of darkness where my enemy is myself.
I scream to the night, and wait for a reply. The thing about the dark though;
It never returns my calls.
So I spill my heart to an answering machine until I’m cut off by the sound of the beep, then start my day as I hit snooze on the alarm clock of life.
It gets old, but no one else is answering my calls either, and at least I know the night doesn’t care how many messages I leave, it will never block my number.
Which is more than I can say for some of the ones I thought would never leave.
“as i flip through memories i realize i have always felt most at home in the company of other individuals on the fast track to rock bottom, or ones already there, welcoming the rest of us. success is so cliche.”
Revisiting the whole album after… a long time of not listening to it. Last time I had it on repeat….
Well, it’s bitter sweet, in that it’s healing old hurts, but it’s like digging open wounds that got dirt in them to clean them out Yk? No easy way to do it, but you have to, or it’ll just fester.
This one hasn’t festered but it does still hurt time to time, each time a bit less.
When I was little, I don’t think I realized that I was living in a toxic environment. I mean, all kids start off innocent. Naïve.
But now that I’m older, I’m able to realize the abuse. Acknowledge that the feelings I felt back than were valid. I mean; a child shouldn’t be scared to go home. A child shouldn’t want to prolong the journey home because they know their abuser is waiting at home.
There was so many situations that I can think of that showed the control and toxicity that is my mother.
For example; I was walking home one day with a girl I had befriended. My mom - for whatever reason - had it out for this girl. Me and her were cracking jokes and I didn’t hear my phone go off (we were a legit block from my house). My mother ended up leaving the house and called me because I didn’t answer. The end result? I answered the call and looked up to see my mother at the end of the street with an enraged look. She went home enraged and I remember the fear I felt. I remember crying; not wanting to go home because I knew what was coming. And when I did go home? I don’t remember exactly what was said but my mother and I had a MASSIVE fight. She gave me the silent treatment for the rest of the day… because I walked home with a friend she didn’t approve of.
Another time, I was building a Lego set with her. We hit a step that we both didn’t understand and when I offered an explanation to what I thought it was saying she took the instruction book and whipped it down onto the floor beside me and started yelling at me. She never hit me with anything - besides now when she will randomly hit me because she ‘felt like it’ - but things were always thrown. Before that time she whipped a remote at the wall behind me and shattered it. A while ago she fought with my nana, her mother, and smashed a glass candle.
I have tried to speak out about this stuff; yet no one listens. They always defend her: “she’s having a rough day”. “Give her grace she’s dealing with a lot”. And if I do something she doesn’t approve of? They defend her actions.
I don’t see enough people talk about abuse outside of domestic abuse. Yes, it is a severe topic. And I do not want to take any attention away from any of that - because it is the more lethal of situations. All I want is to express my situation. My experiences. Because I don’t want another person who is experiencing what I did/currently still am experiencing to feel like they’re alone. Because they’re not.
You are not alone. It is not your fault. Give yourself grace and remember that you are enough. And if that isn’t enough… than you are enough in my eyes.
theartofmadeline
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