𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡'𝑠 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑑𝑒𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑦?

What's your definition of pretty?

That question echoed in my mind every time those boys in class created their biased "beauty ranking" lists. They ranked the girls based on shallow, skewed standards that we all knew were far from fair. Some of them shamelessly included their girlfriends, while others were too cowardly to stand up for theirs. Most of their ideas of beauty came from Netflix series they’d binge-watched over the holidays or some internet personality they idolized, forgetting those were fictional characters, far removed from the complexities of real beauty.

I never expected my name to be at the top of their lists. I mean, I wasn’t the most social person. My bubble was smaller than a hummingbird’s eggshell. Talking to people felt like a struggle, and maybe that was because I feared I wasn’t "cool" enough. A vibe killer, they’d probably call me. But honestly, I didn’t have the energy to pretend to be someone I wasn’t. Peer pressure had no hold on me.

I convinced myself that overcommunicating with the opposite gender might lead to unhealthy feelings—spiritually and emotionally. I’d heard enough about love and marriage to know I wasn’t ready to explore that part of my life. I’m still figuring out who I am; why add someone else’s gbese to my journey? Songs of Solomon 8:4b became my personal motto.

Some classmates labeled me "anti-boys," and you know what? They weren’t wrong.

When I started writing this, I didn’t intend for it to get this deep. I promise I’m not this sober in real life. These are just bottled-up emotions I’ve been too busy to unpack. Writing feels like therapy for me. Once I pen it down, it’s gone—it won’t weigh on me anymore.

You might wonder, Why not just keep a diary?

The truth is, the fear of someone stumbling upon my diary would keep me from writing freely. At least with this letter, I know you’ll read it, and that’s comforting. Writing it here feels safer than hiding a diary that my bunkmate, or even Rita—who crashes on my bed sometimes—could snoop through.

As I type this, there’s a strange rumbling in my stomach . Those butterflies you get as a teenager with your first crush. My heart has so much to say, and I’m practically pounding my laptop keyboard just to keep up with my thoughts. I’m alone in my room, headphones blasting every sad song I can find on the internet to match my mood.

When I started this letter, I had a clear picture of what I wanted to tell you. But now? I’m content just saying this:

You are loved. More than you can imagine. By me, by your family, and most importantly, by the greatest BFF of all time—the one who gave His life for you, Jesus Christ.

What I had in store can wait for another time.

Stop worrying about fitting in or becoming friends with "that person." Your people will find you. I’m still searching for mine, but I’m sure yours are closer than you think. How’s your weekend, dear? Can you believe we’re about to enter the second week of December?