It’s not your fault your face isn’t as beautiful as it is

This weekend, someone said something to me. They looked at me, unprovoked, unprompted and said, “It’s not your fault your face isn’t as beautiful as it is.” The worst thing was, i genuinely thought this person had my back after we reconnected from being distant for a couple of years.

It was one of those comments that catches you off guard not just because of the words, but because of the context: there was none. No tension, no discussion, no reason. Just someone deciding to let their inner voice spill out, with no concern for how it might land.

I’m not one for confrontation. I rarely say something in the moment. But I do write.

So here’s what I want to say, now that I’ve had a moment to feel what I felt.

When did we normalise making unsolicited comments about people’s faces, bodies, or appearance, like it’s nothing?

When did it become socially acceptable to blurt out a judgment, especially one coated in faux sympathy, and expect the other person to just take it?

We’ve created a culture where people think they can say whatever they want, under the guise of being funny and walk away untouched by the impact of their words. But the impact is real.

I know I don’t fit the traditional, cookie-cutter standard of beauty. I’ve known that for a long time. I've even got a blog post about it down below. And the thing is, I’m okay with that.

Actually, I’m more than okay with it. I’m comfortable in my skin. I like the way I look. So does my boyfriend (not that that should matter, but since the world can be superficial and likes to tie value to attractiveness by whether or not you're desired, I thought I’d toss that little fact in for anyone keeping score) 

What I’m not okay with is someone thinking they have the right to voice their thoughts about my face as if it’s public property. As if their opinion adds value. As if I was asking to be rated. There’s a difference between honesty and rudeness. Between being direct and being careless.

If your “truth” involves someone else’s appearance, and they didn’t ask for it, keep it to yourself. Especially if you think you’re being helpful. Spoiler: you’re not.

What you’re doing is projecting your own internalised beauty standards, insecurities, and expectations onto someone else. And that’s not radical honesty, that’s just ego and insecurity. 

My value doesn’t rise or fall based on whether someone else finds me pretty.

And honestly?

If beauty were tied to kindness, I’d be beautiful as fuck.

I’d rather be the person who made you feel seen than the one who made you feel small.

Roots

 As South Asian Heritage Month rolls around, I find myself reflecting on where I come from, not just geographically, but spiritually and culturally.

My identity is rooted in multiple places, layered through generations. My dad’s side of the family has ties to Kenya, my grandfather was born there, part of the large South Asian diaspora lived across East Africa. My mum’s side traces back to India, though she herself was born in Uganda. My dad was born in India, and yet here I am, born and raised elsewhere, never having visited Kenya or Uganda, but still carrying their stories within me.

It’s a heritage that doesn’t sit within one neat box, and I’m proud of that.

There’s something deeply powerful about knowing your family has moved across continents, not just for survival, but for opportunity, for education, for a better future. That movement carries with it stories of courage, resilience, and strength. My grandparents’ generation worked hard to lay foundations for the lives we now lead, building communities, holding on to language, recipes, rituals, and values, while adapting to their new environments.

Even without setting foot in Kenya or Uganda, I’ve felt their presence in the background of my childhood. In the food on our table, the Gujarati phrases dropped into casual conversation, the Bollywood music blaring on our Saturday morning resets, the framed sepia photographs of relatives I’ve never met but somehow know.

There’s something beautiful in the way South Asian identity stretches across borders. We are not just one story, one version of history, or one place on the map. We are global. Diasporic. Interwoven. And while that can feel confusing at times, especially when you’re not “from” where your family came from, it’s also empowering. Because you realise your identity isn’t about being pinned to a postcode, it’s about the people, the culture, and the values you carry with you.

I’ve learned that you don’t need to have lived somewhere to feel connected to it. Sometimes it’s in your name. In your grandparents cooking. In the way your family tells stories. That connection lives within you, quietly powerful and always present.