As a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and naive teenager, I was keen to work in journalism, an industry in which the written word was valued above all else.
I spent years refining my craft, wanting to be the best storyteller possible: I invested in workshops to sharpen my writing skills, pitched dozens of outlets, and spent countless hours building connections with editors.
I hadn’t been “working on” my appearance as part of my career prep— it wasn’t something I thought I had to do.
But in an age when so many people get their updates from TikTok videos or news segments, I started to feel that my work could only achieve widespread appeal if I had the looks to back it up.
As my job required more work on camera, I started paying for ‘tweakments’ and beauty products
After publishing my first national feature at 21, I found myself among a seemingly infinite community of freelance journalists, and quickly learned the importance of building a personal brand.
To stand out (and hopefully keep getting more work), I realized I’d have to do way more than just sit at my desk and write — I’d also need to be active on social media and able to hop on camera for documentaries and news segments.
Later that year, I set foot in front of a professional camera for the first time, appearing in a short film for BBC World News.
As I watched the footage back, I remember being able to pick out (at least) five features I disliked about myself: My face was too round, my brows were too thin, my lips disappeared when I smiled, my lashes didn’t look long enough, and I had acne.
I’d been comfortable in front of the camera during filming — and, deep down, I know that’s what mattered — but I hated how I felt watching myself on video.
After that, I was determined to improve how I looked on screen. I wanted to always feel camera-ready, no matter the cost.
Instead of saving or investing my hard-earned money, I splashed out on brand-new clothes, designer bags and shoes, fake tan, expensive skincare, false lashes, and brow laminations.
I even paid for “tweakments,” minimally invasive cosmetic procedures meant to enhance one’s natural features, like lip fillers and Botox.
I remember looking at a photo of myself three days after my lip flip and feeling an almost embarrassing sense of euphoria: Finally, I felt I’d met my own impossibly high beauty standards. This was what camera-ready felt like.
For a while, these routines and tweaks helped me stop overthinking about my appearance on-camera. I was comfortable enough in my skin to get professional headshots taken, and I felt less inhibited when speaking publicly.
My new look gave me confidence to start presenting content on TikTok, but I still spent longer than I’d care to admit adjusting camera angles, finding my best side, and analyzing my face with a hypercritical eye.
A few years and several thousand dollars later, I realized I’d missed the point
In seven years, I’d easily spent over $6,000 on my “glow-up.”
And yet, I’d started feeling guilty and hollow as I looked at pictures of myself. The girl in the photos was an absolute baddie — there’s no doubt about that — but she wasn’t me.
Despite investing so much in my appearance, the pangs of low self-esteem still hit me from time to time. Ultimately, it all felt a bit pointless.
None of the tweaks had changed the tangible qualities that actually made me good at my job. I was still the same great, articulate storyteller I’d always been … just with fuller lashes and an emptier bank account.
Honestly, I have regrets about investing so much into my appearance when I could’ve spent the same amount of money on courses on court reporting, pitching masterclasses, or even pursuing a journalism degree.
As I wrap up my 20s, I’m pledging to stop spending money on “tweakments” and to try a little harder to embrace my natural beauty.
Maybe I’ll never be 100% comfortable watching myself on screen, but I’ve realized having true confidence in my career will never come from throwing money at every perceived imperfection.
It comes from refocusing on my skills and why I became a journalist in the first place: to tell high-quality stories and take myself out of the picture.
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