The Cost of Being Looked At

A reflection on beauty, power, and the fear of fading

Beauty is a Currency—Whether We Want It to Be or Not

There are worse things to be in this world than beautiful.

But being beautiful—or even beautiful enough—comes with its own kind of complexity. Especially when you’re aware of it. Especially when you know the doors it opens. Especially when you also know those doors may slam shut the moment your reflection changes.

When I was hiking with a friend recently, she made a passing comment about my looks. And instead of brushing it off or pretending to be modest, I just said it:

"Thanks. It’s an investment."

I didn’t mean it to sound egotistical. It was part gratitude, part critique, part confession. Because the truth is, I don’t place much value on physical appearance personally—but I live in a world that absolutely does. And so I’ve learned how to play the game.

My looks are, in many ways, my primary currency. Not because that’s how I define myself. But because that’s how the world does.

It’s Not in My Head

I say all this not from assumption, but from experience. I’m told about my looks on a regular basis. Compliments have been a constant companion in my life, like a soft breeze that occasionally becomes a storm.

Sometimes it feels sweet—especially when it comes from women or gay men. There’s something affirming about being seen and appreciated in a way that feels safe, celebratory, even sisterly.

But when the compliments come from straight men, the energy shifts. Even when I know the man is a good person. Even when I feel safe. There’s still a part of me that goes on alert. My body tightens just slightly. My radar clicks on. Because I’ve lived in a world that taught me early on: admiration can turn into entitlement, fast.

And then there are the moments where I feel… disappointed. Even mildly insulted. When someone compliments my appearance but says nothing about my intelligence, or my skills, or the energy I so intentionally cultivate. It can feel like being reduced to packaging. Like being praised for the wrapping paper when the real gift sits ignored inside the box.

That’s what I mean when I say pretty privilege is complicated. It’s a kind of power, yes—but one you didn’t exactly ask for, and one that rarely comes without strings.

The Dreams That Haunt Me

Sometimes, I have dreams—nightmares, really—where I lose that currency.

Nothing dramatic happens in those dreams. No disfigurement, no violence. Just a shift. A subtle, Black Mirror-style drop in social recognition. Suddenly, I’m invisible. Not because I’ve done anything wrong. But because I’ve aged. Or gained weight. Or simply stopped trying.

And in the dream, I feel powerless.

That’s the part that gets me. Not the vanity. The vulnerability.

What happens when the thing you never wanted to rely on becomes the very thing you can’t afford to lose?

Beauty as a Survival Strategy

Sometimes I wonder what my life would look like if I hadn’t learned to present myself the way I do.

If I didn’t know how to put together an outfit, or walk into a room with soft confidence, or bat my lashes just enough to keep the door open another second.

It’s not manipulation—it’s survival.

It’s knowing how to read a room where men hold the power and women hold the attention.

And when I say “investment,” I don’t just mean skincare and hair appointments and highlighter on the cheekbones.

I mean emotional labor.

I mean choosing softness when I’d rather be sharp.

I mean cultivating a glow from the inside out so that people see “vibrancy” when I’m actually exhausted.

I mean learning the choreography of femininity—when to lean in, when to make eye contact, when to laugh just enough for it to feel effortless.

And the wild part?

I don’t even think I’m a 10. Most days, without effort, I’m probably a 4. But I’ve learned how to become a 7 or an 8 when it counts. I’ve learned how to be the kind of beautiful that makes people lean forward. And I’ve learned that sometimes, that’s enough to get you in the room.

But What Happens When the Room No Longer Looks Up?

What nobody tells you is how fragile that room can be.

How fast the invitation disappears when your beauty slips—or when someone younger and shinier walks in. You start to wonder if people were ever seeing you at all, or just the fantasy they wanted you to be. And once you realize that, it’s hard to un-know it.

I want to believe I’d still be powerful without my beauty. That my voice, my truth, my wisdom would be enough.

And some days, I do believe it.

But other days, I feel like I’m clinging to a currency that is rapidly depreciating. And that terrifies me.

Because what if I lose it?

What if I lose everything?

From Fear to Fire

And yet... even in that fear, I feel a slow unraveling.

A reckoning.

A return.

Because the most radical thing I can do is to not disappear. To keep showing up as I age, as I change, as I become less palatable to the male gaze.

To shift the currency.

To reorient the value.

To rewire the system that taught me my body was the only receipt I needed.

I don’t want to be pretty anymore.

I want to be whole.

I want to be seen for my presence, not my packaging.

For my fire, not just my face.

For the way I can hold someone’s truth without flinching, for the depth of what I carry, for the work I’ve done to become a safe place in this world.

Reclaiming Radiance as an Intimacy Coach

And yes—I’ll still wear lipstick.

I’ll still glow up when I want to.

But not because I’m afraid of what happens if I don’t.

Because beauty, in its most sacred form, is not about power over others.

It’s about radiance from within.

That’s the kind of beauty I’m committed to now—not just for myself, but for my clients, my community, and my daughter.

As an intimacy coach, I work with plenty of people who have been taught they’re not desirable. People who believe they’re too old, too awkward, too different to be wanted. People who were never told that erotic energy isn’t reserved for the young or the airbrushed—it’s something we generate from the inside out.

I want to help others reclaim their hotness—not as a surface-level aesthetic, but as a felt experience.

As confidence.

As sensual embodiment.

As the deep knowing that you are worthy of pleasure and attention, not because of how you look, but because of how you show up in your body.

Hotness isn't a body type. It's a life force.

And once you feel it, you can never really lose it.

Even if your reflection changes.

Even if the room forgets to look.

Even if your “pretty privilege” fades.

Because when you’ve done the work to know your worth, you no longer need the world’s permission to be radiant.

You just are.