Glitter and Neon Eyeliner Make Me Feel Like the Best Damn Version of Myself

"Never let anyone dull your sparkle." Literally.

Jul 11, 2023

I was 12 years old when my mom bought me my first concealer.

At the time, it seemed like the natural progression of puberty—when I got boobs, she bought me a bra; when my legs were so hairy that the kids at school started making fun of me, she bought me a razor; when my skin started to break out, she bought me a concealer. All of these "fixes," I figured, were just a part of becoming a woman.

It didn't take long for that single concealer to turn into an entire arsenal of makeup meant to hide my flaws. By the seventh grade, I was setting my alarm for 6 o'clock every morning to give myself enough time to cake on poorly-matched foundation and MAC Laguna Bronzer so that no one would know the realities of what was happening underneath. Even after the breakouts had stopped, I followed the same routine every day (albeit with better products) for nearly 20 years to hide the deep, purple scars they'd left on my cheeks that made me so, so insecure.

As a beauty editor, I've dedicated my career to helping women understand that beauty is supposed to be for them—that the whole point is to do what makes you feel good, everything else be damned. But for years, it felt impossible to practice what I preached. I was so afraid of showing my real face to the world that whenever I went out at night, my clutch burst at the seams with anything I could possibly need to fix my mask in case it slipped off. If I ever forgot my emotional support concealer at home, it would send me into a panic. I dated my last boyfriend for nearly two years, and I don't think he ever saw me without it—I'd wake up before him every morning to reapply, then pretend to go back to sleep, because I was genuinely so scared of what he might think. How sad, right?

As my therapist would say, "Let's dive into that," because she'd know I wasn't telling the whole truth. And, okay, fine—she'd be right (worth the $150 an hour, I guess). The whole truth is that I genuinely believed that the real me wasn't lovable. That for anyone to give a shit about me—my boyfriend, my friends, my colleagues, the random bouncer at WestWay—I'd have to hide the ugly parts of myself.

As much as writing, or even thinking, that sentence makes me cringe, I'd like to believe that it wasn't my fault. As a woman, society has done its best to convince me that I have to fit into a certain standard of beauty to be accepted, which is why I wound up with that concealer—and, now that I think about it, that bra and that razor—in the first place. And I realize now that it wasn't just about what I looked like. I spent years believing that I had to downplay the parts of me that felt like "too much" to be loved, so I covered those things just like I covered up my acne scars.

But two full decades after that first swipe of concealer—in the wake of a full lockdown-induced year of not leaving the house (and another two after that of barely leaving the house)—my relationship with makeup has changed. During the pandemic, I was introduced to the concept of "dopamine-boosting beauty." The idea (which, by the way, is semi-backed by science) is that painting your face with bright, fun colors can actually serve as a legitimate mood enhancer, so during one of my more recent depressive episodes, I decided it couldn't hurt to give it a try.

What started with a single swipe of glitter eyeliner across my lids has turned into a daily practice of treating makeup as a form of self-expression. Bright eyeshadows, bold lipsticks, and face gems have become integral parts of my routine, and instead of treating my makeup as a way to look less like the real version of myself, it's become a way for me to show off who I really am.

On days when I wake up feeling like the worst version of myself (see: the depression-related post I shared six months ago, before the Adderall shortage derailed my plans at having a consistent newsletter), instead of trying to hide parts of myself with caked-on concealer, I now paint my face with all of the brightest, happiest, glitziest colors I can find.

There’s a sign in my childhood bedroom that says, “Never let anyone dull your sparkle,” and though it may sound like a too-simple (and, okay, pretty fucking cheesy) metaphor, the glitter I’ve put on my face has empowered me to be lit-from-within, too. Not only does it make me genuinely happy, but it's made me fall in love with beauty—and myself—in an entirely new way.