My face tells a story of strength

I have an older cousin who was given the nickname “wrinkle” because he always had a scowl on his face that caused a crease between his brows. As I grew into my teens and early 20s I often had the same wrinkled expression on my face. My parents would jokingly say, “Hey wrinkle!” as a reminder to not let my face age prematurely. I learned from a young age that wrinkles do not make me desirable.

The messages to maintain a perfectly ageless face continued into my mid-late 20s. We live in a society where women are scolded for “letting themselves go,” while men are praised for “aging like fine wine.” Society discards women after their youth has worn off. Pop culture is steeped in toxic femininity and impossible standards. For example, I recently heard Kim Kardashian say she’d eat poop if that meant she would look younger, for goodness sakes.

Currently, I am 34 years young and have a deepening number 11 wrinkle between my eyebrows thanks to twenty years of bulimia and alcohol dependency. Oftentimes being sober feels challenging because all I see when I look in the mirror is an overly aged face. It feels like the wrinkle tells a story of two decades worth of self-harm.

Unfortunately, I have been chasing the idea of “pretty privilege” my entire life. I always thought I was too shy to be accepted, but if I could be pretty enough then life would somehow be easier. And now that I have a single imperfection in the middle of my face, I feel unworthy and ugly. Is this something all women experience? Are we all greeted with a slight (or massive) identity crisis while grieving the loss of youth and beauty?

Recently I saw an article where Jennifer Garner says young people should be cautious and wait to get injectables and fillers. My love for Jen began with 13 Going on 30, but now I love her even more. This article makes me wonder how much of my own negative self-image has been caused by patriarchy and capitalism. Has this botox-driven world skewed my perception of reality?

These Brandi Carlile lyrics have helped reframe my wrinkle shame:

All of these lines across my face

Tell you the story of who I am

So many stories of where I've been

And how I got to where I am

Instead of allowing my wrinkle to be a story of self-harm and addiction, I am learning to take pride in this facial battle scar. My wrinkle tells the story of the blood, sweat, and tears I have put into my recovery. It tells the story of the countless times I picked my hungover self up from the bathroom floor and tried again. It tells the story of my resilience, courage, and survival.

I can breathe a little easier when I think of my wrinkles as a story of strength, instead of a story of undesirability. I can breathe a little easier knowing that life’s greatest privilege has nothing to do with a smooth face and everything to do with having the opportunity to be soberly present as I grow older.

My face tells a story of strength.