Like Butterflies

Like Butterflies - Kobe Wang (Burlingame High School, Ninth Grade)

Like always, I stood in front of the mirror, tugging at the sleeves of my loose-fitted

sweater, picking at my scarred face, turning from side to side, trying to find something about

myself that I liked. The bedroom lights above flickered, presenting shadows under my eyes that

made them look more tired than they truly were. I squinted. Frowned. Tilted my head. Still, I saw

nothing remarkable looking back. Just a body and a face. Just a person trying to be someone they

could stand to look at, but I was destined to be a nobody.

Already at a young age, it became almost like a routine to find every quality that I

disliked about myself. To me, I felt like I was performing an inspection rather than simply

looking. I was constantly meticulously searching for flaws, tallying imperfections, and

convincing myself that if I could just fix this one thing, maybe I’d feel better, maybe I’d finally

feel worthy enough to live.

Each morning became a silent battle between who I was and who I thought I needed to

be. I dreamed of the ideal version of myself: confident, likeable, and radiating positivity. But

eventually, I saw that the person I kept picturing wasn’t a version of me at all. It was a character

I created, because I didn’t believe the real me could ever be enough to possess these qualities.

Desperation to change increased and manifested into obsessive research, my teenage mind

grasping for ways to become someone else entirely. I spent countless hours searching up plastic

surgery vlogs and articles, trying to see which surgeon I would go to when I grew up.

I found myself caught between two sets of standards, never fully fitting into either one. I

became hyper-aware of my posture, my smile, the way I spoke, how I styled my hair, even how

much eye contact I made. It was exhausting trying to exist in a body that constantly felt like it

was being evaluated against two measuring sticks I never chose.

In the Western world, there is pressure to be rugged, tall, broad-shouldered, tan, with

sharp features and a kind of effortless masculinity. Confidence was loud there—loud and visible

and bold. But when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see any of that. My features were softer, my

presence quieter, and my frame was narrower despite years of swimming.

On the other hand, in Asian culture, the ideal leaned the opposite way — fair skin, a lean

and youthful appearance, delicate features, and an almost ethereal cleanliness to the look.

Emotions were often meant to be subdued, diluted — a sort of perfection that felt distant and

curated. But even then, I fell short. My skin was too tan from swimming, my nose wasn’t high

enough, and my jaw wasn’t sharp enough. Somehow, I was always “too much” or “too little” of

something, depending on who was looking. In a way, the things that I did to fit one beauty

standard became a double-edged sword, sabotaging me in the other.

I was told not to care about these things as a guy, that insecurities, beauty standards, and

mirrors are for girls. But I did care. And I hated that I cared. I hated how much of my identity

had been shaped by trying to live up to versions of myself that were too hard to achieve. The

mirror didn’t reflect just one version of me. It showed the conflict, the constant switching, and

the internal tug-of-war between two ideals I never asked to partake in.

No one had told me that self-worth is found in the sharpness of your jawline or the

smoothness of your skin, and yet, I kept searching for it there, in the mirror, in comparisons, in

silence. Yet even though the mirror never spoke, it felt like it was always saying something.

Something cold. Something cruel. Something that sounded a lot like my own voice.

Going on my daily doom scroll, I found a Tiktok post and it stated: "Butterflies can't see

how beautiful they are. But we can." At first, I brushed it off, but it kept lingering in the corners

of my mind. The idea that butterflies, with their colorful wings and fleeting lives, flutter about

never knowing how much they cultivate awe resonated to me. They live, move, and exist without

ever being burdened by self-perception.

One night when I cried quietly in the dark, clutching my phone, I tried to find that

butterfly post again. When I finally did, I saved it onto my phone, and read it again every time I

needed it. And again. And again. And each time, it felt a little less foreign.

Sometimes I watch the way my friends talk about each other, with so much love in their

voices, and I wonder if they ever speak that way about themselves. I doubt it. We’re all experts

in self-criticism, amateurs at self-love. But the truth is, we don’t need to see our own wings to

know they’re there. The people who walk with us, the ones who hold us when we fall, the ones who call us in the middle of the night, just to make sure we’re okay, they see us in our entirety. I

try to trust their words the way I trust in the beauty of butterflies. I try to understand that maybe

the mirror doesn’t tell the whole story. There’s a quiet kind of power in accepting that we don’t

always need to feel beautiful to be beautiful. That we are not defined by our worst days, or our

loudest doubts. That someone sees something special in us, something we’ve never been able to

see for ourselves. Like butterflies who don't even realize how beautiful or impactful they are, we

go through life not always aware of the positive ways we affect others. And that’s beautiful.