The Beautiful Thing About Feeling Ugly

Last night I caught myself hiding my smile in a group photo classic “half-turn, hair-forward, maybe no one will notice” pose. And then I laughed, because the very thing I try to tuck away is exactly what people compliment: the crinkle near my left eye, the not-quite-straight tooth, the way my cheeks go all kindergarten when I’m excited. Insecurities are funny like that. The part we micromanage into oblivion is often the part others find human, memorable beautiful.

Psychology has receipts for this. Elliot Aronson called it the pratfall effect back in 1966: people who are competent actually become more likable when they mess up a little. Translation: perfection is impressive, but imperfection is endearing. The coffee spill, the voice crack, the joke that lands sideways those are the breadcrumbs that lead people to the real you. We’re wired to connect to warmth over flawlessness. The irony? We spend years ironing out the exact creases that make us touchable.

It doesn’t start this way. Babies don’t sit around wondering if their thighs look “unflattering” in a onesie. They just… exist. Explore. Reach for the shiny thing. There’s a classic setup in developmental psych the visual cliff (Gibson & Walk, 1960) where infants crawl across a glass surface that looks like a drop. The youngest ones go right over; fear hasn’t learned to speak yet. A little older, they start checking a parent’s face before crossing a beautiful example of social referencing: Are we safe? Are we okay? And there it is, the first draft of insecurity born not from “I am wrong,” but from “How are we doing?”

Then school happens. And cousins. And comparison. Leon Festinger gave us social comparison theory in 1954: we figure out who we are by measuring ourselves against other people. A little comparison pushes us to practice piano; a lot of comparison convinces us we should never touch a keyboard unless we’re Lang Lang. Add Instagram’s never-ending talent show and boom our brain runs on upward comparison all day. Great for careers (ambition fuel). Brutal for self-kindness (everything becomes a gap to close).

By adolescence we discover a new monster: the spotlight effect (Gilovich et al., 2000). You feel like everyone notices your pimple; most people are too busy worrying about their pimple. We move through rooms like accidental celebrities in our own minds every stumble magnified, every “um” subtitled. No wonder we edit ourselves down to the parts we hope are safest. And yet, what do we fall for in others? The laugh-snort. The too-loud enthusiasm. The story about failing the driving test twice. If you’ve ever loved someone’s “flaw,” you’ve already proven your own thesis wrong.

Here’s the twist that helped me: insecurities aren’t proof that something’s broken. They’re proof that something’s precious. We only guard what matters. Self-discrepancy theory (Higgins, 1987) says the ache we feel often comes from the gap between the person we are and the person we think we should be (or who we think others want). That gap hurts but it’s also a map. It shows what we value. If I’m insecure about my voice in a room, it’s because being heard is sacred to me. If you’re insecure about your art, it’s because making things is holy in your world. The pain marks the treasure.

I see this play out everywhere. A friend hates her “too-loud” laugh; it’s the exact sound that makes parties feel like parties. Another over-apologises for being “too sensitive”; she’s the first to notice when someone goes quiet and the only one who knows what to say. One guy I dated was embarrassed by his “overplanning”; turns out he’s the reason trips actually happen and trains are never missed. We keep calling these things flaws while the room calls them reasons we’re glad you came.

Of course, there’s a line. Insecurity can tip into avoidance. We skip the open mic because our hands shake. We avoid the beach because we hate our arms. We keep our mouth shut in meetings because our voice wobbles on the first sentence. But notice what happens when someone else does the shaky thing anyway: the room leans in. Our nervous system quietly relaxes in the presence of someone who didn’t wait to be flawless to be real.

If you need a gentle reframe, borrow one from Japanese aesthetics: wabi-sabi beauty in imperfection, impermanence, incompleteness. Kintsugi repairs broken pottery with gold, highlighting the crack instead of hiding it. Imagine treating your “crack” the scar, the accent, the awkwardness as the seam that makes the bowl one of one.

“But what about success? Comparison made me ambitious.” Fair. Ambition is the engine; comparison is the octane. The trick is dosage. A little upward comparison: rocket fuel. A lot: engine fire.

Here’s a compact way to dose it:

• Compare backward once a week (to your older selves): what can you do today you couldn’t do a year ago?

• Compare sideways with gratitude (to peers): what can you admire without turning it into self-attack?

• Compare forward with curiosity: what one skill just one would make Future-You proud next month?

And since we’re on psychology, a quick compassion ninja move: when your insecurity flares, swap the question “What’s wrong with me?” for “What is this trying to protect?” You’ll find a value underneath belonging, competence, love. Meet the protector, thank it, then choose the smallest action that honours the value. Shaky voice? Read the first slide anyway. Beach fear? Ten minutes in a T-shirt, then take it off if the sun wins. Art shame? Post the messy draft to someone safe.

If you want pop-culture proof, think of all the lines that made you cry. It’s never the “I am perfect” monologue. It’s “I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy…” (Notting Hill). It’s “You have bewitched me, body and soul…” (Pride & Prejudice). It’s “It’s not who I am underneath, but what I do that defines me.” (Batman Begins). Vulnerability is the unforgettable part.

So here’s my open-ended question for you (and me): what’s the one thing you’re most tempted to hide voice, skin, softness, accent, laugh that might secretly be your gold seam? If a close friend borrowed it for a day, would it make them more lovable or less? If the answer is “more,” maybe today’s assignment isn’t to fix the thing it’s to feature it.

I’m not saying insecurities vanish if you squint hard enough. Some days they roar. But maybe the goal isn’t silence it’s fluency. To learn the dialect of your own doubt so well that you can turn it into a love language. The kid on the visual cliff didn’t know fear until someone’s face taught them what to check for. You’re older now; you get to choose the face you look to. Pick the one that smiles, nods, and says, Go on. The glass will hold.

And if the photo catches your “bad” side? Frame it anyway. That might be the exact angle someone else has been waiting to see proof you were there, beautifully human, crack and all.