(submitted by Guest Contributor Kate from Suburban Sweetheart)

I think about "What Not to Wear" a lot. It's not because I'm some hideous, burlap sack-wearing fashion disaster – although I suppose I sometimes can be – but rather because I relate closely to the emotional, excuse-making traps so many of the show's subjects display.

A recent episode featured a blogger named Amanda who confessed to the show’s hosts, Stacey and Clinton, that she's never used the word "beautiful" to describe herself, has never felt sexy, doesn't take compliments well, and doubts her husband is attracted to her anymore. As I watched the show, my heart ached not just for Amanda, whose self-esteem problems were so evident and so deeply rooted, but for all the women & girls who feel the same way – women who see every flaw but not a single positive attribute.

I confess: I am sometimes one of these women. To some extent, aren't we all? When I was young, I prayed nightly – literally, pray-to-God prayers – to be pretty when I grew up. Of course, I can see this now as being terribly sad, that as a little girl, I was unable to see myself as being worth anything more than my looks. Now, I have grown into a young woman who knows, for the most part, how to use my positive physical attributes – wavy hair, apple cheeks and straight teeth among them – to my advantage while downplaying my less-than-attractive bits, effectively taking “pretty” out of heavenly hands and into my own. Whether my tearful childhood prayers anything to do with my current looks or not, I cannot say.

Fortunately, I now consider myself a fairly self-confident person – but I still flounder, when challenged, to come up with a list of things I like about my appearance. Though there are many, many things that build up my confidence, there are just as many, if not more, that threaten it, and nearly all of them are physical. Like Amanda, I rarely feel sexy or beautiful; I sometimes feel pretty, but just as often, I feel only presentable enough to leave my home nervously, peeking into display windows to double-check my reflection.

Each compliment I give myself is quickly paired with a chastisement: My smile is pretty, but it’s frustratingly crooked on one side. My neck is long and graceful, but my double chins ruin it. My hair is naturally wavy and usually well-behaved, but it’s also prematurely graying and tends on the oily side. And so on. It’s like I refuse to allow myself to accept compliments – even from myself. As soon as I identify something I like about my body, that nagging voice creeps in to tell me I have to balance it out with at least one thing I dislike, too.

Stacy and Clinton teach that with the right clothes and some well-applied makeup, I’ll start feeling better about myself, as I deserve to. And while I always find the show’s message empowering, it contrasts sharply with my recent attempts to do exactly the opposite – to appreciate how I look when I’m not making an effort. I struggle to find the balance between the “What Not To Wear” mentality – which tells me I am good enough, beautiful enough and worthy enough to make the effort – with the seemingly simple act of accepting my face without any bells and whistles.

With this in mind, I once committed to going a month without makeup. At the time, I hadn’t left my home without concealer and foundation in as long as I could remember, & I wouldn’t dream of going public without the eyeliner I used to fastidiously reapply. I planned to write about my facial experiment in some meaningful, substantive way, maybe a short memoir to submit to a magazine or blog about my journey to simply accept my own face.

But I couldn’t do it.

I found I couldn’t bring myself to go “naked” into the world, at least not without easing into it.  Looking at myself in the mirror without the makeup I’d so long relied upon was like looking at a stranger – an ugly stranger. The few days I made it into work without makeup, I felt ashamed, self-conscious and vulnerable. Oftentimes, I’d sneak off to a bathroom midday to apply my facial security blanket, returning to my desk relieved and more like myself.

The idea stuck with me, though, and over time, I began to question how I could possibly feel “more like myself” with makeup than without. Certainly it’s all right for me to enjoy and even prefer wearing it – that’s what it’s made for, after all. But if I don’t feel like myself when looking at my bare face, in its makeup-free glory, who am I? If I’m hiding from myself, how can I ever be honest with others?

I know my story is not unique. Women struggle to reach attain standards for physical beauty set by the media, the entertainment industry, & every other woman they know – but when it comes down to admitting how we feel about ourselves, we hesitate to accept or even admire of our looks for fear of being branded bitchy or egotistical. Does calling ourselves pretty make us full of ourselves? Will believing we are beautiful make us pompous? I’ve decided the answer is no – and little by little, I’ve forced myself to make peace with my face, daring myself to believe in my own beauty.

Though I remain aware of my flaws, it is an accomplishment to no longer be hyperaware of them, allowing and even forcing myself to compliment my appearance – without qualifiers. My teeth are impressively straight; I love having long, wavy hair; I have a warm smile. These are the things I focus on, forcing the minutia to the back of my mind as I remind myself that no one else can see the grey hairs that distress me so, and no one else has likely noticed that my teeth are not as shiny-white as Crest promised me they’d be. Slowly, I’m becoming someone who appreciates my features and accepts my flaws, not just begrudgingly but – dare I say it? – enthusiastically.

The battle, of course, is far from over, and I fear that it will never end, as I am heart-wrenchingly sure that little girls across the world lie awake at night whispering the same prayers I used to say at night. And it’s not just the little girls – it’s the grown women, too, women who dread mirrors and can think of no way to compliment themselves. Women who I am making a concerted effort not to be anymore.

I wish I could teach them all what I have only learned through self-reflection and continued emotional struggle, that I could bring them to the place where I now find myself. Now, I hazard to leave my home without makeup, and it never results in panic attacks of self-consciousness. Quite often, I catch myself thinking to my reflection, “Hey, you look really nice today,” both with and without makeup. And when my boyfriend tells me I’m pretty? I can, shockingly, believe him – and I even agree.

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