Not Pretty Enough: A Journey Through the Rearview Mirror

“Not pretty enough, huh?” I spat the words out at my own reflection in the rearview mirror, the neon glow from the gas station sign flickering across my tired face. My hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, as rain hammered the windshield. My phone buzzed again—a familiar name on the screen. My boss, Linda. Of course.

“Veronica, where are you?! Jesus, do you know how many times I’ve called? If the feature’s not on my desk by Monday, don’t bother coming in.” Her voice echoed in my head, overlapping with my mother’s from years ago: “If you just lost a little weight, you’d be so much prettier.”

I slammed my phone down on the passenger seat. “Screw you!” I screamed into the empty car. My words fogged up the window. For a moment, I thought about driving off and never coming back. But where would I even go?

My mind flashed back to the dinner table last Thanksgiving. My younger sister, Emily, had just gotten engaged. Mom was radiant with pride, fussing over Emily’s ring, her wedding planner dreams suddenly coming true. Meanwhile, I sat across from them, an afterthought, the only one without a plus-one. Dad tried to make small talk about my job at the magazine, but Mom cut in: “Maybe if you took better care of yourself, you’d have someone, too.”

I felt the same burning shame now as I did then. The same anger. The loneliness. I always thought if I worked hard enough, if I earned enough, maybe I’d finally be good enough—not just for them, but for me.

The rain slowed. I started the engine, the car hiccuping to life. I drove aimlessly through the sleeping streets of suburban Philadelphia, thinking about the feature I was supposed to write—some glossy piece on ‘Empowered Women in Business.’ The irony made me want to laugh and cry all at once.

My phone buzzed again. This time, it was Emily. I hesitated, then picked up.

“Hey, Ronnie. You okay?”

I nearly broke down right there. “I don’t know, Em. Everything’s a mess. Linda’s on my case, Mom’s still… well, Mom. I just—”

Emily was quiet for a moment. “You want to come over? I made your favorite—mac and cheese from scratch. Brian’s out with his friends.”

A lump formed in my throat. “Yeah. I’ll be there in ten.”

She lived in a cozy townhouse, just over the city line. When I stepped inside, the smell of cheddar and breadcrumbs hit me like a warm hug. Emily pulled me into a real one.

“Let me guess. Mom again?”

I nodded, unable to speak. She poured me a glass of wine, and we sat on the couch, the TV murmuring quietly in the background.

“Why do you let her get to you? You’re amazing, Ronnie. You’ve got a career, friends—hell, you had the guts to move out and chase your dreams. Mom just… she doesn’t get it.”

I shrugged. “Why isn’t that enough? Why do I still feel like I’m twelve, just wanting her to say she’s proud of me?”

Emily sighed. “She’s never going to change, Ronnie. You have to decide if you’re going to keep letting her define you.”

I looked down at my hands. “I don’t know how.”

She smiled softly. “Start by writing that article. Not for Linda. For you. Tell the truth. About what it’s really like.”

I slept in Emily’s guest room that night, the rain tapping gently on the window. In the morning, I sat at her kitchen table, laptop open. My fingers hovered over the keys. I thought of all the times I’d been dismissed, overlooked, told I wasn’t enough. I wrote about it—the pressure to be perfect, the way women like me were told to shrink ourselves to fit somebody else’s idea of beautiful.

I sent it to Linda before I could chicken out. My phone rang almost immediately.

“Veronica, this isn’t what I asked for,” Linda snapped.

I took a shaky breath. “Maybe not. But it’s what your readers need.”

There was a long silence. “You’re bold, Veronica. I’ll give you that. Let’s see what the board thinks.”

I hung up, heart pounding. I expected to feel sick, but instead, a strange sense of calm settled over me. I’d said my piece.

That evening, Mom called. I hesitated, but answered.

“Veronica, your sister told me you stayed over last night. Is everything alright?”

I wanted to say no, to spill everything, but something stopped me. Instead, I said, “I’m figuring things out, Mom. I wish you could see me for who I am, not just how I look.”

She was silent. Then, quietly: “I know I haven’t always said the right things. I just want you to be happy.”

I swallowed hard. “I’m working on it.”

After we hung up, I sat by the window and watched the clouds break apart, the sun setting in streaks of orange and pink. For the first time in years, I felt something shift inside me—a tiny, stubborn seed of hope.

Sometimes, I wonder: How many of us are walking around, weighed down by words we never deserved? What would happen if we finally let ourselves be enough, just as we are? Maybe it’s time we found out.