My Birthday Botox
A fight for my flesh because what even is a beauty standard????
The world is a beautiful place if you’re willing to believe you’re never quite enough.
But what if we were?
What if I was?
Enough, that is.
Would we all be pretty then?
Skinny enough? Curvy enough?
Snatched jaw, pouty lips, and WOW dream coat hair that glistens in the moonlight enough?
And if we were—all of us, effortlessly radiant, youthful, and symmetrical enough, then what?
Chaos.
Probably.
An economic collapse. The whole world crumbling before our eyes because we all stopped buying collagen creams or syringes full of hyaluronic acid and wrinkle free promises.
Imagine that. The global market brought to its knees because we all woke up one morning, looked in the mirror and thought, You know what? I’m good.
I mean, I can’t even imagine wearing a tight top and hip hugging jeans out to dinner, constipated and bloated, just two days away from shark week (my period), and not feeling like a gassy cow. To sit down comfortably at a table full of couples who don’t even notice my four months pregnant looking pouch because, apparently, we’re all just casually “chill” like that is beyond my ability to comprehend.
But that’s not the world we live in. Right? We live in a world where beauty and by extension whatever eyelash extended, contour sculpted version of it the industry is selling us defines our daily existence.
And most days, I just go along with it. I mean, what’s the alternative? I don’t know how to move through the world any other way.
Besides, I like cool shit. Scrolling past celebrities wrapped in silk I can’t afford. Face masks that leave me looking glowy, like I’ve been baptized in nectar. Being sprayed orange because, for some reason, it makes me feel alive.
I want the slimy stuff for my face, too. The ones that make me shine like a well-oiled baby before bed. And I want to strap on a red light mask, turn off the lights, and scare Billy. Because not looking like Michael Myers moonwalking in the dark isn’t just a missed opportunity, it’s a sin.
Ridiculous, I know. But I love it.
There’s something oddly comforting about it, like playing a really expensive game of dress-up. Only with serums instead of sequins.
But still, we all have our limits. And somewhere between the last five days of 29 and 30, I found mine.
The other day, I walked into a med spa in Destin, Florida—the one with the most stars within a seven-mile radius, like any lazy, reasonable person would.
My 30th birthday was approaching, and something about that 3x10 milestone triggered "Botox" in my brain like a freakin’ fire alarm.
I’d gotten Botox before, about a year and a half ago, so the idea of voluntarily injecting toxins into my face wasn’t new.
But lately, I’d found some lines that were.
The kind that make you wonder if you’ve been pissed off at the world for too long or crying over this dumpster fire of a job market too often.
Either way, my face was starting to crease in ways that suggested I should probably have my shit together by now.
Which, of course, we all know I’m not yet wise enough yet to pull that off.
Anyway, Billy dropped me off at this big cement building with a name that read something like Dr. Something Whatever, followed by an alphabet soup of letters trailing underneath it.
(The kind that make a person sound wildly important or, at the very least, qualified to hold a syringe.)
I asked Billy what all those letters meant.
“Dentist,” he said.
Which, I mean… I can’t.
Is that not the most bizarre thing you’ve ever heard?!
The fate of my fading youth entrusted to a... dentist????
Someone who spends their days filling candy cane cavities and fitting mouth guards.
Weird.
Weird.
Weird.
WEIRD.
I mean, I guess these days anyone can pass for anything, right? Empaths who skipped psychiatry school calling themselves life coaches, me and my unemployed ass calling myself a Substacker like it's a real job or something lol.
It’s funny how easy it is to collect certificates those never-ending like CVS receipts as if stacking extra letters after your name somehow proves you know what you’re doing.
(Spoiler Alert: It doesn’t.)
Trust me, I’ve got plenty. Exhibit A: Certificate in the Economics of Blockchain and Digital Assets, which has done absolutely nothing for my assets, blocks, or chains. But if you say it fast enough, it kinda makes me sound like I play pickleball with important people in Silicon Valley.
Anyway, the name on the front of the building was massive, and only 4 of those 17 never ending letters had nothing to do with teeth.
Reminder: Weird.
(If we're out here now turning LinkedIn bios into billboards now, I swearrrrr I’ll freak the freak out)
I turned to Billy, told him to kiss my old face goodbye, and walked into the shiny, poreless world of plastics and pretty people.
The place was nice. The front desk attendant was chipper and gay, which is usually promising.
I sank into a cushion that refused to budge—a solid foreshadowing for what I was about to experience.
After signing away my life on a stack of papers I didn’t read, I was ready for the new me. Yay!
An assistant of sorts in scrubs called me back. Her face was tight, vacuum sealed almost. Could’ve been her ponytail, could’ve been the needles. Idk. Probably both. Her lips were permanently pursed and perfectly un-cracked. She was nice. But in that like “bless her heart” kind of way that makes you want to bite your own hand off.
I told her I didn’t want much. My 30th birthday was coming up, and I just wanted my lines softened.
I explained how I’d done 20 units of Botox before, which I know is kinda standard but still felt like too much for me. I didn’t want that again. Most days I really don’t mind my wrinkles. I like people knowing when I’m pissed off.
She nodded like she understood (she didn’t), then took a million photos of me from every possible angle. If only I had a copy of my “omg this is so exciting” face right now for this post...
When she was done, she uploaded the photos to a giant TV screen. Suddenly, there I was in 4K resolution, from 37 different angles.
Anyway, then she zoomed in and my sparkles went to shit.
That mother fucker.
My face became a topographic map, every line circled in red like I was failing a face exam or something. It was excessive.
This must be what it feels like to be famous and see yourself being ripped apart by TMZ. I wouldn’t last a day.
Then she walked in… Dr. Something Whatever.
And... omg.
Guys…
I’m not even trying to be mean when I say this, but she looked so painfully uncomfortable. Her face was stretched so tight I didn’t know where to focus. Her under-eyes were bruised, her skin looked thin and shiny and so injected that I felt physically uneasy.
It was sad.
I wanted to hug the parts of herself she clearly hates.
What scared me most was that this wasn’t the person I’d seen online. Online, she looked bright and glossy. Like a toothpaste ad. (cause she’s a dentist lol). But in person, she looked incredibly unnatural. A full, flesh manifestation of Instagram face.
How could I trust her if that was her idea of ideal?
She circled more fucking red things on my face like a hawk eyeing roadkill. Wtf. Apparently, losing my depression weight over the past two years (through exercise and vegetables, no less) had aged me. Like I’d committed some unspeakable crime against collagen.
I didn’t know broccoli could be so criminal. Clearly, I can’t win.
She poked at my chin and traced her finger around my eyes, even after I told her I liked my crow’s feet. I think they look cute when I smile.
She didn’t seem to agree. Hard to tell if it was because she physically couldn’t move her face or because she was just a bitch.
Later, I realized it was both.
She told me she’d put together a plan that fit my budget (without ever asking what my budget was mind you). My dirty, dog-bitten sneakers must’ve done all the talking.
Anyway, she comes back in with her "plan" and tells me I need at the minimum 30 units of Botox.
One unit for all 30 years of my life I guess, like each injection was meant to erase a chapter I’d already written.
Christ. That cut deep.
I told her no I’d rather let it fade faster than feel trapped behind a face that couldn’t move. Chop that number in half. 15 units is my max.
She already knew that. Suggesting more felt less like advice and more like a violation of my boundary.
Bitch.
They shot me down. “We don’t do that here,” they said, like I’d just asked if they accepted Monopoly money. Anything under 30 units, they claimed, was a waste of their time and “wouldn’t do anything.”
I left.
Paid $50 for the privilege of being told my face was tragic and strutted out in my dirty sneakers like a dance mom whose kid just got cut from the show.
(Except I was both the kid and the mom.)
I was furious.
Furious at her tone. Like my face was a beat-down motel she couldn’t be bothered to renovate.
Furious that I’d wasted an hour listening to a woman with a plastic face tell me I was behind.
Behind what?
Behind who?
I’m the only me that’s ever existed.
Wtf was she talking about?
God, I was so mad. But, for the first time in a long time, I felt clear about my limits. About how much of myself I was willing to compromise.
That felt good.
I think that’s the biggest shift I feel heading into my 30s: I just want to feel like me again.
This isn’t about Botox or no Botox. To each their own. Really, I truly mean that. I know full well that I’ll circle back when I find someone who doesn’t treat my face like a fixer-upper.
Hell, I might even get a boob job at 50 because after years of people sucking on my nipples, why shouldn’t I tell gravity to go fuck itself?!
But whatever I do—whether it’s a needle or a new lip oil or walking out the door in my deliciously dirty sneakers—I don’t want it to come at the cost of feeling like I’m losing myself.
That’s the crux.
I’m just done with the bullshit.
Done with beauty standards. The ones that make you second-guess yourself in dressing room mirrors.
Done with the quiet guilt that creeps in when you like the way you look but feel like you’re not supposed to.
Done with the anti-beauty rage. Like wanting to fix your eyes bags or smoothing out your forehead makes you shallow. Or wanting to feel pretty is some kind of moral failure.
The pressure to love yourself loud and proud enough as you are, unshaved legs and all, to prove you’re above it is just exhausting people.
Most days, my legs are half-shaved, half full-grown. I just give up midway through because meh.
And while I’m at it, self-help branding can screw itself too — tired of being told I’m one gratitude journal away from inner peace.
Sometimes I don’t wanna fucking find my inner peace. You know what I mean? I just want to sit in my mess—cranky, overthinking, convinced I’m right (though I know I’m wrong).
Why does being a self-righteous asshole have to be so bad all the time, anyway?
All the extremes, I’m tired of this grandpa! The tug-of-war between “erase every flaw” and “embrace your imperfections or else you’re a fraud.”
Since when does feeling good about yourself have to be justified?
Beauty is not a personality trait.
And maybe that’s the real mind game… taking up space in a world that’s trained us to shrink.
In today’s media landscape, self-perception has become a weird kind of parasocial experience. We don’t just exist anymore, we watch ourselves exist.
We scroll through our own profiles like followers of ourselves, constantly critiquing, editing, and curating.
Like we’re packaging ourselves to be consumed.
I wonder how many people (especially the younger generations) get ready for their online self before their real-life self these days. Like they’re dressing for their Insta pic first.
And as much as I hate to admit it, I get it.
At some point in my 20s, I stopped just being and started comparing. Everyone online seemed prettier, cooler, wiser. Like they knew something I didn’t.
And slowly, that started bleeding into my real life. What began as second guessing myself online turned into second guessing myself everywhere I went.
It’s hard to feel confident when you’re constantly managing your own perception, thinking less about how you feel and more about how you look like you feel.
But maybe that’s just part of it.
Maybe we’re all walking contradictions, craving authenticity while chasing perfection.
Wanting to be seen but terrified of being seen.
To feel effortless while still standing in front of the mirror, trying to get it just right.
And maybe turning 30 is just my new decade to embrace the shit out of that. To quit treating myself like some equation that needs balancing.
I was never much of a numbers girl anyway… unless we’re counting glasses of wine I can snag at an open bar lol.
Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s this:
True beauty isn’t about symmetry or having a forehead like Teflon.
It’s energy.
The way you move through the world. The way you laugh without holding back or tilt your head when you’re really listening. It’s in the way you stand at a party, like you belong there without even thinking about it.
It’s the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly who they are and why they deserve to take up space.
The kind of beauty that doesn’t ask for attention. It just is. The kind that lights a spark in others. That lingers like the smell of someone’s perfume on the shoulder of your sweater. Or the way a good conversation echos in your ears hours later.
It’s the kind of beauty that doesn’t cost hundreds or require quarterly touch-ups. It’s the accessible kind. The kind we’re all born with. The limitless kind that’s ours for the taking, if we’d just stop getting in our own way.
Maybe true beauty is less about what you fix and more about what you’re willing to leave alone. The instinct to know when to stop trying so hard.
And if that doesn’t work, well... there’s always Dr. Something Whatever ready to stab you with 30 units of regret!!!!!!!
This ruled Becca! A wild ride: personal, diaristic and covering so many fresh takes and cultural accounts.
Beauty standards, elasticity around a sense of self( yes that's a botox pun), and the power to walk away and choose yourself first. You let it rip in this one- well done!
Wow I freaking loved this. I was actually dying at the part where you signed your papers without reading anything. Girl…same. I remember getting cheek filler in Bali and showed up to the clinic totally disoriented and confused. Like I wanted to get it but also WTF was I doing here. Please keep writing!!