I recently turned 25, which feels symbolic of many things — a fully developed prefrontal cortex, a looming quarter-life crisis, and, according to the life plan I made when I was 8, the year I’d buy my first house (I’m very behind). Somehow, being 25 feels older than ever. I expected some existential angst on the day, although it didn’t come until the evening. As I looked in the mirror on my way out and saw the same forehead wrinkle my eyes are magnetized by, I felt my first pang of dread. I am officially not getting any younger. In fact, I’m getting older, faster.
Allegedly, around your mid-twenties, the production of collagen — the proteins that provide your skin with support, hydration, and elasticity — declines by 1% each year. It’s the gateway to intrinsic aging, and I, on October 30th, officially entered. Nearly a year ago, anticipating what was to come, I started thinking about how I could oppose the natural process. I began with a religious sunscreen regime, followed by occasional retinol treatments. I swore off suntanning, never smoked a cigarette, and tried to make my very expressive face, less expressive. A year later, I’ve realized I’ve done pretty much all that I can do. I can slow the natural process, but I certainly cannot stop it. Unless, I try something a bit more drastic.
I had never even considered getting Botox (or any filler equivalent) until a few months ago. Somehow, in a society where it is so normalized, I am surrounded by women who bare their natural skin every day. From my mom to my closest friends, my boss to my flatmates, the world around me is beautifully creased, and I always assumed I would be the same. However, my other world, my digital, filtered world, is not. Whether it’s an unmistakably stiffened look or barely noticeable at all, Botox is not only displayed online, but promoted. It’s made out to seem crucial, like a mandatory step in adulthood aligned with coming off of your parents’ phone plan and purchasing a vacuum. It’s as if I truly need it. Because if I age and wrinkle, what will become of me?
As I got ready for my birthday dinner, swarmed with questions about the departure from my adolescence, I realized the forehead line I’m grappling with runs far deeper than my actual skin. It’s the first crack in my preserved youth, and I’m faced with the decision of embracing it or erasing it.
It’s hard to imagine a time when this internal conflict didn’t exist — when the only way to age was naturally, with every laugh, cry, drunken cigarette, and sunburn. When the lines on our faces and necks reflected a life lived, not erased. Yet here we are, staring at the lines on our foreheads and contemplating whether or not they need to be plumped back to the tautness of our youth. As if, somehow, having a wrinkle is the unnatural thing; an alien on familiar terrain.
But what is it that we’re so afraid of? Perhaps that as we lose our youth, we lose our value — the things that make us desirable and malleable and seen. I feel it keenly as a young woman, and can only imagine how it will intensify as I age. My mom described it as slowly becoming invisible, and I’ve realized I’m not sure if I feel brave enough to risk becoming invisible myself. It’s this fear of disappearing that seems to drive much of our obsession with anti-aging. It’s not vanity, but the underlying belief that our value peaks when we are young, that often leads us to the dermatologist’s office. Unlike fleeting cosmetic trends like lip fillers or the infamous BBL, the quest to halt aging feels eternal. I find it difficult to imagine that women will return to their natural skin in the same way many have returned to their natural lips or bodies. It seems we are in it for the long haul— us and our desire to pursue visibility, recognition, and the promise of endless youth. So, what can we do? Is Botox the answer to maintaining relevancy?
It goes without saying that I, as someone with no experience with or around it, am in no position to discuss the ethics and morals of fillers. No one is, really, except for the person deciding. If we start judging choices about someone else’s face, isn’t that just another way of judging choices about someone else’s body? The question is not whether Botox is good or bad, right or wrong. The question is if I can exist confidently and comfortably in the world without it. If I can remain visible and valuable, regardless of what I choose.
In an attempt to solve it all, I’ve landed on not much of anything. Instead, I’ve come to accept that this, along with just about every other moral dilemma we face, requires nuance. The way we respond to aging doesn’t have to be rigid or extreme. We can care about our appearance while resisting impossible beauty standards. We can differentiate how we are perceived from our true value, yet care how we are perceived regardless. We can get Botox while feeling secure in ourselves. We can keep our natural skin and question if it’s enough.
Perhaps the best path forward is simply to let time do what it’s always done — add depth, knowledge, and experience to our lives. We can focus on everything it adds, instead of what it takes away. We can stop measuring ourselves against our youth, and instead, measure ourselves against the person we are becoming, no matter how old we are. After all, the only way to truly disappear, is to stop living entirely.
So for now, I don’t think I’ll be getting any Botox. I’ll continue to apply my sunscreen and retinol, I’ll stay away from cigarettes and the sun, but I won’t sacrifice my life just to preserve it. It’s my small act of resistance against the beauty standards, though some days are easier than others. I’ll remind myself that we all meet aging in different ways. And most importantly, I’ll trust that we don’t disappear based on what we change or keep.
As it turns out, the obvious thing is still the truest — we are, and always have been, far more than what we look like.
