Google : HOW TO LOOK MORE ATTRACTIVE ?

 

It was a quiet Tuesday. The kind of day that didn’t carry any visible weight—no rain, no thunder, no heartbreaks, no failures. But she sat there, still, unmoving, in front of her mirror. It was just another ordinary day. And yet, something inside her had begun to ache with an unbearable sharpness. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but she didn’t blink. Not yet. The mirror was doing something strange . It wasn’t showing her face. It was showing her story. All of it. And when the tears finally fell, they were not just from that Tuesday. They were from years ago. They had been waiting.

     She wasn’t born into struggle, nor into luxury. Her life had been what many would call normal. Not too loud, not too soft. A rhythm of school, laughter, family, meals, festivals, occasional fights, and everyday dramas that one could call a home. And for the longest time, she believed it was a home. That was before she realized it had also been the first place where her body was laughed at.

She was a child of excellence—someone who learned to recite poems before her peers could form sentences, who sang before she knew what lyrics meant, who painted skies and wrote lines about the stars, and stood before hundreds with a mic at the age of four. Her shelves could never hold all her medals, and her walls were too small for all the certificates. People loved her. They adored her. Not for how she looked, but for how she was—soft-spoken, obedient, respectful. A girl with no complaints, who never raised her voice, who smiled in the background while others shone in the room.

But quietly, alongside all her achievements, something else grew: the feeling of being not enough.

At every family gathering, as relatives smiled at her talents, someone would laugh about her arms. They were too thin. Her legs—“like sticks.” Her waist—“where does she even tie her saree?” Every comment was followed by laughter. Every laughter came with a glance toward her mother. And her mother? She laughed too. She laughed with them.

She thought, maybe they don’t mean it.

She thought, maybe they’ll stop one day.

She thought, maybe if she achieves enough, they’ll finally see past it.

But the world had its own criteria. And it was never built for girls like her.

When she moved to a new city at 18, with a suitcase full of hopes and trophies, she thought she was starting over. A fresh page. But the ink hadn’t even dried before the weight returned. The stares. The whispers. The jokes.

The world now demanded curves. A girl needed to be “thick,” “healthy,” “busty,” and always— “fair” . She tried. God, how she tried. Twenty eggs a day, eight rotis, bananas, protein powders. She bought products to lighten her skin. She looked up ways to gain weight, to gain inches, to “fix” herself. She spent hours online searching “how to increase breast size naturally.” All because someone once called her “flat.” Because someone once looked at her body and decided she didn’t belong in the conversation of beauty.

Still, she told herself she was more than her body. That her mind was her strength. Her kindness. Her voice. Her art.

Until even love betrayed her.

She believed that when the world was cruel, love would be her refuge. That a lover would see the soul that others ignored. That he would be the one to say, “You are perfect as you are.” And for a while, it felt true.

But love, when silent, can sometimes hurt louder than words.

He never said he didn’t find her attractive. But his eyes did. They wandered—on the streets, on the screens, on her friends. On women who were curvier, fuller, taller, fairer. He never cheated. But every moment he didn’t choose her fully felt like betrayal. It was the way he complimented others, but never her. It was the absence of hunger in his gaze. The way she always felt like a soft comfort, never a raging desire.

And that’s when it broke.

Because all her life, she had fought against the world’s gaze. But when the man she loved couldn’t look at her like she was enough, the fight became internal. She began to believe that maybe love was only reserved for certain bodies. That maybe even the kindest heart couldn’t compete with thick thighs and fair skin.

People called her sexy online— hot, sleek, body goals. But she knew they didn’t see her. They saw a body. A fantasy. Nothing more. And when she was younger, she thought maybe even that was a kind of respect. But it wasn’t. It was hunger, not admiration.

     She once thought her body wasn’t “enough” because it was too thin. Now she realized the world was never going to be satisfied. Ever. If she had curves, they’d say she was doing it for attention. If she stayed thin, they’d call her a stick. If she gained weight, someone would whisper that she’d “let herself go.” If she lost weight, they’d say she was vain. The goalpost always moved. The standard of beauty was a maze designed to trap women into believing they were unfinished projects.

And so, on this quiet Tuesday, she finally stopped.

She stopped explaining.

Stopped apologizing.

Stopped running.

She sat in front of the mirror and stared at her reflection. She didn’t see flaws. She didn’t see bones. She didn’t see “too little” or “not enough.” She saw a survivor. A girl who had laughed with the people who broke her, who ate seven chapatis just to be loved, who chased curves and whiteness and a version of herself that the world kept demanding but never truly cared about.

And then she whispered to the mirror—not with anger, not with pride, but with truth:

Let them laugh.

Let them joke.

Let them say what they want.

They are not me.

They don’t know the battles I’ve fought inside this body. They don’t know how loud silence can be, or how heavy a compliment can feel when it never arrives.

They don’t know what it means to cry without a sound because you’re too used to being the strong one.

That girl in the mirror?

She is no longer a prisoner of society’s jokes, of her partner’s wandering eyes, of her family’s mocking voices.

She is becoming.

And she is enough.

Because the girl who once believed she was too little…

Has finally learned to become everything for herself.

She is no longer trying to shrink herself to fit their expectations,

or expand herself to meet their desires.

She is no longer begging to be seen.

Because now, she sees herself. And for the first time in years, that is enough.

      But this story—her story—is not just hers.

It belongs to millions of girls in India and across the world who silently swallow their pain because speaking up would mean being labelled as “too loud,” “too sensitive,” or “a bad child.”

Because patriarchy has long defined a “good girl” as someone who stays quiet.

Who smiles through the hurt.

Who never makes a scene.

Who endures humiliation in the name of humility.

     And so, when these girls are mocked for their weight, or their height, or the shape of their nose, or the colour of their skin, they are told—“Don’t make a fuss.”

“It’s just a joke.”

“It’s said with love.”

But let this be said clearly:

Body-shaming is not love. It is not harmless. It is not a joke. It is emotional abuse. According to a 2022 study by the National Commission for Women, more than 78% of Indian women have faced some form of body-shaming, often beginning in their own households. And globally, body image concerns are becoming a silent epidemic.

The WHO reports that 1 in 7 adolescents aged 10-19 experiences mental health conditions—many stemming from issues related to body image and appearance-based bullying.

Suicide , the ultimate cry of invisibility is now the second leading cause of death among young people aged 15 to 29 worldwide. And beneath many of these suicides lie scars etched by cruel comments, unspoken trauma, and the unbearable weight of not being “enough” for a world obsessed with physical perfection.

This has to stop.

And it doesn’t stop with a protest or a trend.

It starts at home. At the dining table. At weddings. In classrooms. In WhatsApp groups. At sleepovers. On Instagram. In passing remarks that leave permanent damage.

It starts when:

• Mothers stop laughing at their daughters’ arms and start lifting them with pride.

• Fathers stop comparing their daughters to fairer cousins and start reminding them how powerful they are.

• Cousins and siblings stop making weight a punchline, and start making self-worth a conversation.

• Teachers and friends stop commenting on appearances, and start celebrating growth.

• Partners stop being silent spectators, and start being protectors—not of the body, but of the soul within it.

Because the real standard of beauty is not in the size of a waistline or the fairness of a skin tone.

It is in how someone makes another person feel.

It is in dignity, in courage, in the softness of resilience, and in the fight to be oneself in a world that wants you to be everything else. And to every girl reading this— who has googled “how to look more attractive,” who has measured her arms with a tape, who has looked in the mirror and whispered hate into her own skin—know this:

You do not need to change your body to be loved.

Raise your voice not because you’re rebellious, but because you’re right.

Wear what you want.

Eat what you love.

Walk with pride.

This is your country, your life, your body.

And no one—no one—has the right to define you except yourself.

Freedom isn’t just about a flag waving in the sky.

It is about the girl who finally walks down the street in her own skin, without shame.

It is about the woman who decides that she doesn’t need to shrink, bleach, sculpt, or stretch herself for anyone.

Let’s build a society that raises girls to speak—not to apologize.

Let’s raise boys to compliment kindness before curves.

Let’s raise homes that celebrate every kind of body as beautiful.

Let’s raise mirrors that don’t frighten—but empower.

Because when we change the conversation at home,

we begin to heal the world outside. And maybe then, one Tuesday not far from now, another girl will sit before her mirror—

not in tears, but in triumph.

She will look into her reflection, not searching for flaws, but meeting the eyes of a warrior who never gave up.

And that girl…? 

It’s me.

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References : 

1) Image - https://pin.it/5J6ETRd02 

2) Statistics

-  www.who.intnews-room/fact-sheets/detail/adolescent-mental-health 

-  https://cdn.ncw.gov.in