Age and Beauty Standards

I understand the system we live in—the one that weaponizes beauty, commodifies youth, and stigmatizes aging, especially in women. The beauty industrial complex is powerful, insidious, and often invisible in its violence. It feeds us the lie that to age is to become less visible, less desirable, less worthy of admiration or attention. And I get it—how hard it is to unlearn that conditioning.

I’m not here to police what people do with their bodies. Autonomy is sacred. If you want Botox, fillers, lasers—do it. That’s your business. But what concerns me is the cultural undercurrent—especially among millennials and older—where youthful appearance becomes a badge of superiority. This urge to say “I look younger than I am,” or worse, to weaponize that against actual young people with “I look younger than you”—what purpose does that serve?

Why are we so afraid of looking our age?

I’ve always been fascinated by aging. There was a time I couldn’t imagine myself beyond youth, as if time would somehow skip over me. And yet, even though my face still feels familiar, I can see the subtle shifts—the quiet grace of lived experience settling into my features. I still wrestle with body dysmorphia. I’ve wondered, do I look my age? But I’ve realized those thoughts only come when I’m comparing myself to people younger than me. And comparison, too, is part of the trap.

I understand the desire to cling to youth—especially as a woman. We are told, in a thousand ways, that our value is in our youth. That our power is in our smallness. That the moment we begin to change, soften, wrinkle, we must hide. But here’s the truth: aging is a privilege. Not everyone gets to do it.

Growing up, the women I found most beautiful were always older. Young people look just that—young.Still unfolding, still figuring things out. Sometimes angry at a world that stole their girlhood. I don’t think my teens were my prime, and I don’t believe my twenties are either. When I look back, all I feel is sorrow for letting people with ugly hearts convince me I wasn’t enough. I’m still growing. I’m still waiting for my grown-woman body—because this can’t be it!

What I admire in older women is not youth preserved—it’s wisdom embodied. The actually bitter ones are pretty easy to spot and that’s not who we’re talking about here. 

The women who let kids be kids. Who guide instead of compete. Who’ve settled into themselves with grace and laughter. They smile with their whole faces, fine lines and all—and they look radiant doing it.

And honestly? You’re beautiful. Whether your face is twenty-five or fifty. Whether your skin is smooth or textured by time. Whether your hair is untouched or silvered by wisdom. You’re beautiful because you are—not because you’ve tricked the mirror.

It’s time we stop measuring ourselves against youth and start honoring the beauty of becoming.