I used to be a full-blown materialistic whore for all things glamour. Not the cute, “I like nice things” version. The real one. The kind where I would scroll Instagram all day drooling over limited-edition Birkins all while strapped on a wheelchair with not even a tinge of Birkin-esque lifestyle in sight, convinced that if I just owned the right bag, the right shoes, the right filtered face, my life would finally hit peak meaning.
Beauty, to younger me, was engineered. It sparkled under club lights, smelled like expensive perfume mixed with desperation, and came with a four-figure price tag. I slobbered over it. I measured my worth in carats and designer logos. A sunset? Cute, whatever. A flower? Unless it was wrapped in $100 bills, I was not interested.
Then I got older. Not “wise elder” older—just old enough to fall in love and daydream about a beautiful life. And somewhere between one recovery phase and finding someone who adores me , something shifted.
Now, I lose my mind over a random wildflower pushing through sidewalk cracks. A proper sunset will stop me dead in my tracks and prove the power of the universe. That soft, violent orange bleeding into purple, the sky putting on a show for free while we all scroll past it for more filtered asses and sponsored content? It is obscene how beautiful it is. Nature does not need a retoucher. It does not need validation. It just is—raw, indifferent, and infinitely superior to anything we slap a logo on.
Do not get it twisted though. I am not out here becoming a barefoot hippie who renounces possessions and starts smelling her own patchouli armpits. I still love the glamorous fabrics that make my ass look illegal. I still want the luxurious purses and sunglasses that cost more than rent in most cities. The difference is I no longer pretend they are the pinnacle of beauty. They are fun. They are armor. They are expensive toys for adults who like shiny things. But they are not it.
The real—the breathtaking, soul-shaking kind—does not come with a barcode. It is the way light hits tree leaves after rain. It is waking up in your true love’s arms and giggling to the birdsong outside the window. It is a dandelion growing in the gutter, flipping off the entire concrete jungle. Nature does not care about your follower count, your tax bracket, or your carefully curated aesthetic. It just keeps being majestic while we cosplay relevance.
Society hates this realization, by the way. The entire economy is built on convincing you that beauty is something you buy, inject, or filter. Influencers will sell you $90 “clean girl” serums while preaching about not wearing makeup and finding self-love. Billion-dollar industries thrive on your insecurity. And here I am, getting older and increasingly unimpressed by the whole grift.
Getting older did not make me soft. It made me savage in a different way. I fought disability and I fell in love. Now I am less tolerant of artificial beauty standards and more feral about the real thing. Fighting for life taught me to appreciate life… I still wish that I could wear the heels that make men stupid, but I will also stop mid-walk attempt to stare at a moss-covered rock (if I can even see it— as I do not wear my eyeglasses to physical activity).
Kat’s Musings 