You're Beautiful
On freckles, thigh gaps, Asian vs Western beauty, and ageing.
Welcome to Letters From Heidi, a refuge for truth seekers, deep-feelers, and the homesick searching for Eternity.
I am Heidi, an Asian-Australian woman who writes stories and essays on life, faith, pop culture, and the immigrant family experience. If you are a new reader, you can learn the story behind Letters From Heidi here, or subscribe to never miss a post!
Dear friend,
In this month’s letter, I share my personal journey with female beauty standards—a topic that’s been on my mind ever since my daughter was born. I share what life was like growing up with contradicting beauty standards, and how they shaped my insecurities as an Asian Australian woman. I then explore how my new faith, motherhood, and entering my late 30’s has redefined my perspectives on outward beauty.
You're Beautiful
1993
My dad picks up a doll from the bargain bin. It was a heavily discounted Ski Barbie—an African doll with luscious dreadlocks and dressed in snow gear. My first doll and a gift from Dad—Ski Barbie became my favourite. I brought it to school hoping to play but instead was berated with questions. Why does your Barbie wear pants? Where is her dress? Why is her hair black? Why is she black? Embarrassed, I put Ski Barbie back in my bag and never brought her out again.
I just want to fit in.
1995
My mother smothers sunscreen onto my cheeks while I writhe and squirm with disgust. She warns me about sun damage and that I’m getting too tanned. I tell her Australians don’t care. Mum only ever used Asian cosmetics with whitening agents promising a radiant glow. I hated having to go to school looking like a Geisha. Even as a young girl, I felt tangled in a web of contradicting beauty standards. Too Asian at school, too Aussie at home, I never looked ‘right’.
I just want to look normal.
1998
I’m tired of being compared to other girls. Boisterous, headstrong, and now preferring Pokemon over dolls, I no longer fit the template of a demure Chinese daughter, nor could I ever look like the popular girls at school. I begin to refuse dresses, ballet flats, pink clothing and long hair. Hiding my bony frame in oversized all-black outfits, I rebelled against conventional femininity, hoping that life would be less noisy as a tomboy.
I just want to be invisible.
2000
I travel to Hong Kong and find myself surrounded by delicate porcelain faces and dainty petite frames. In Australia, even a size small hangs off my body like a parachute but in Hong Kong, I was reaching for a large. I suddenly feel embarrassed by my arms and hips.
Salespeople would examine my bare face and ask “do you want anything to cover that?” They point at my freckles and I suddenly feel flawed. Back home, and despite my mother’s concern, I learned to be proud of my freckles. My drama friends said they made me look like Asian-American actress, Lucy Liu. I thought they made me look more like my mother.
Time in Hong Kong gave me clarity as to why my mother was always obsessed with sunscreen…and why I so often struggled to find a secure footing in a world between cultures.
I just want consistency.
2003
Magazine covers convince me that beauty is valuable but unattainable—reserved only for women with thigh gaps, sun-kissed skin, and luscious beach hair. I tell myself that in order to be beautiful, I need to first reconstruct the shape of my eyes, the width of my nose, and the way my body angled behind the camera. Life seems easier when you’re pretty.
I just want to be seen and respected.
2023
My 2-year-old cups my unwashed face and examines it with innocent eyes. I wonder what she sees? My growing eye bags? The blackheads on my nose? Discolouration on my cheeks? I wince a little.
Preoccupied by my own insecurities, I had failed to notice my daughter’s trembling lips and sobs of concern.
“Why I have no freckles…like Mummy?”
My self-conscious thoughts quickly vaporise as I hold her close. I remind her that God created her, and that with or without freckles, she is uniquely beautiful. I point to the pair of freckles on her left thigh—evidence of sun-kissed memories where together, we chased adventure and joy without fear.
She touches her freckles and smiles.
I want my daughter to know she is beautiful.
2025
It’s the morning of my brother’s wedding, and I offer to help my mother with her make-up. With deteriorating eyes, she was struggling to apply it on her own. As I dabbed concealer across her cheeks, she began to lament the fact that she could no longer use mascara. It was then I realised that time had stolen her once long and sweeping eyelashes—a symbol of youth that would never grow back.
Mum shows me the dress that she wore to my wedding—a flowing emerald ball gown kept hidden in her closet for the past 12 years. She recalls her excitement of dressing up for my wedding day, but now more than a decade later, she’s lost motivation and confidence.
I tell Mum to wear the gown again.
She insists her body has changed too much.
I force the dress over her shoulders.
She writhes and complains that it won’t fit.
I move the zipper and the dress closes up.
“Do I look ok?” she asks.
Eyes welling with pride, I tell her that with or without eyelashes, dressed up or not, she will always be beautiful.
We look in the mirror and smile.
I want my mother to believe she is beautiful.
As a woman and mother in my late 30’s, I am in a season where women around me are questioning and losing their confidence. Much of this is related to the changes in our physical appearance, while being faced with unrealistic beauty standards. We live in a world where young girls are rushed to grow up and ‘glow up’, and yet once they are there, they are pressured to erase any signs of ageing.
I wish it wasn’t this way.
I wrote this letter with various women in mind—mothers, sisters, and teachers who have worked to rebuild my confidence and to see my intrinsic worth as a daughter of God. I think of the women who have opened their hearts and homes to a Prodigal Daughter, and in doing so, showed me the beauty of the gospel in real and tangible ways. To the women who have sacrificed so much to bring out the best in me—you’re beautiful.
Language is important.
So let me clarify, that when I say “you’re beautiful” what I mean is that I see a woman who lives with Eternity’s confidence:
a heart tender with hope,
hands armoured by love,
and eyes framed by
joy lines formed from
beholding (eternal) things above.
You’re beautiful.
And I pray you believe this to be true.
Did this post speak to you? I value every message and comment so feel free to leave feedback in the comments below!
Note: This is my 10th post on Substack! I would like to mention , a Substack author whose writing encouraged me to break my hiatus, join the platform, and who inspired this style of vignette writing.
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Thank you for this beautiful piece. Keep writing! I have tears from the scene of you and your mom.
I loved this piece Heidi. You're writing is so empathetic and kind... If that makes sense? I love the vingettes. My post partum body has been bothering me since I feel like I shouldn't really be post partum anymore after 15 months. I was talking about this with someone else and we had to remind each other that God's beauty standard are so different to ours. This was such a good reminder of that again!