Everyone always believes their babies are cute, but my mom wasn’t delusional — I was a beautiful baby. My rosy, chubby cheeks were pinched and kissed, and the folds on my arms and legs were cherished. Yet, as I grew older, what once made me beautiful suddenly became an issue for everyone.

I was the middle child between two thin sisters, and while they were called heartbreakers and beautiful girls, I received “hopeful” compliments. These compliments were conditional — something I had to earn or at least wait for. The ‘flattering’ remarks I received mostly sounded like, “When you lose all that baby weight, you’re going to be a stunner,” or, “Puberty is going to do wonders, and then you’ll be as beautiful as your sisters.” I realized that beauty was something others were born with but something I had to work hard to earn.

It would be years until I would finally get over this obsession with beauty — and true inner confidence would allow me to embrace all aspects of my identity, including my sexuality.

It would be years until I would finally get over this obsession with beauty — and true inner confidence would allow me to embrace all aspects of my identity, including my sexuality.

When I hit puberty, my cheeks were still round, and my body resembled the shape of a toddler. But my hair grew long — black, thick, and straight. That’s when I finally started receiving compliments. I felt beautiful for the first time and realized that my hair helped me get the closest I would ever be to conventional beauty standards.

My hair became the only thing that strangers, friends, and relatives complimented, so I clung to it. I cared for my hair as if my life depended on it — because, in a way, it did. My self-esteem relied on validation from others. I soon realized that the length and thickness of my hair represented femininity and beauty in the Latine community, and I wanted to be perceived that way. I found myself wanting people to see me attractive at any cost. I began to spend hundreds of dollars and countless sleepless nights on hair care products, treatments, and routines. But, like all superficial compliments, they eventually lost their spark.

As I matured, compliments no longer impacted me in the same way. Life experiences — like being dumped by a boyfriend for being fat — taught me that I couldn’t rely on others for validation. I threw myself into creating plus-size fashion content and learned to build my self-worth through my actions, not just my appearance. I realized that my body was the least important part of me.

I learned to cherish my self-worth the way I once adored my hair. What others believed about my fatness was no longer my issue. Instead of giving in to oppressive beauty standards, I began to challenge them. In fact, that’s what pushed me recently to cut my hair short.

This wasn’t the first time I decided to cut my hair shorter. Six years ago, in a conversation with a relative, I mentioned that I was considering getting a chic bob. They immediately told me I couldn’t “pull off” short hair because of the roundness of my face and that long hair was the “right thing” to have as a woman. That experience motivated me to cut my hair short despite having a round face, and it was an empowering moment for me.

Fast forward to 2025, and my life looks a lot different than it did in 2019. Now that I am in my mid-30s, I have come to terms with my sexuality, realizing that I am a lesbian. My newfound openness about my sexuality made me question how I viewed myself and how I wanted to present myself to the world. Was I a girly lesbian, a masc, a chapstick lesbian, butch, or a power lesbian? Would I have to stop wearing the tiny bags I love? How could I become pretty for the female gaze rather than the indoctrinated male gaze we are all conditioned to default to from birth?

Since my last defiant hair transformation, I have begun experimenting sporadically with how I want to be perceived through hair colors. This year, I decided to take the plunge and go shorter than ever, this time with a French bob.

The idea of going shorter again, despite the criticism I received the first time, had buzzed through my mind for months, and while doom-scrolling on my phone, I came across a video of a woman getting a French bob. It immediately felt like a sign. I knew cutting my hair to the shortest it had ever been would be both an exercise and a new beginning in testing my identity as a lesbian, but I also realized it was time to challenge my personal beauty standards once again.

My face was rounder than when I went short the first time, and my hair had grown to a length that made me feel protected and comfortable. Unlike before, the haircut did not immediately empower me this time — it challenged how I saw my beauty. My double chin and vulnerability were exposed. I received hundreds of compliments, but the one negative comment was the only one I could remember. I began to question whether I had pushed the limits of my confidence and beauty too far.

The work I had already done on my identity kicked in, allowing me to face this new haircut confidently, regardless of what a stranger or anyone in my life might say.

The intersections of my identity are continuously scrutinized. Defining my physical self allows me to feel in control while society and politicians debate my worth.

Accepting those changes in my identity and appearance with kindness is the least I can do — especially when society pushes us to chase an ideal none of us will ever reach, simply because it doesn’t exist. Now that I sport my hair in a way that feels authentic, I feel free to be unapologetically myself as a fat lesbian Latina.

Jessica Torres is a writer, body-positive advocate, and social media influencer dedicated to challenging beauty standards. Previously, she worked as a writer, producer, and on-camera talent for Revelist, which nominated her for a best beauty and style vertical award. Jessica has been featured in Seventeen, Teen Vogue, Nylon, Elle, and more.