My Insecurities

Hey y’all, today I want to talk about something very personal—something that’s been a part of me for as long as I can remember: my insecurities. This isn’t an easy story to tell, but I feel like it’s one that needs to be shared.

From Childhood: When Insecurity Took Root

I can still remember being five or six years old, growing up in Steger, Illinois. Back then, my parents were still together, and we lived in a nice apartment complex in the suburbs—mostly surrounded by white kids. That was the first time I ever interacted with white children.

I had 4C hair—thick, coily, and long. But every time I saw the little white girls with their sleek, shiny ponytails, I wondered, “Why can’t my hair look like that?” My mom used to section my hair into big parts because it was so thick, while the other girls had straight ponytails that swung naturally.

That’s when the desire for straight hair started to grow inside me. I remember my mom pressing my hair with a hot comb, and my ears burning from the heat. But just pressing it wasn’t enough—I wanted a perm. Then I wanted weave. And eventually, I started wearing wigs.

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Why Are We So Insecure About Our Natural Hair?

I’ve always asked myself this question: Why do we—Black women—feel so insecure about our natural hair?

When you have 4C hair, you can leave the house looking beautiful, but after thirty minutes to an hour in humid weather, it puffs right back up like nothing ever happened. That’s just the natural texture of our hair.

I decided to get sisterlocks—tiny natural braids—but if I’m being real, I still struggle sometimes. I still wear wigs occasionally, especially when working with certain companies. But why do I do that? To sell wigs to my own community?

The Damage We Cause Ourselves

Let’s think about what we’ve done to our hair:

• Pressing it: burns and damages the strands

• Perming it: chemicals destroy its natural structure

• Glue-ins and sew-ins: pull our hair out when removed

• Wigs: block oxygen from reaching our scalps

And then we wonder why our hair thins out or stops growing. It’s because we’ve damaged it for years trying to look like someone else.

The Painful Difference

When white or Asian women wear wigs, it makes sense—the wigs resemble their natural hair texture. They’re not trying to be someone else.

But when we—Black women—wear silky straight wigs, everyone knows it’s not our natural hair. So why don’t we wear curly or kinky-textured wigs that look like ours? Why do we reach for the straight, wavy styles that mimic white or Asian women?

Our Ancestors Didn’t Need That

When I visited the National Museum of African American History in D.C., I saw a photograph of Harriet Tubman. She wore a colorful dress, had her hair naturally braided, sat upright with pride, and looked absolutely confident. She was honoring her natural beauty.

So why is it so hard for us to do the same? Our ancestors wore afros and braids proudly—and they were accepted. But now, when a woman wears her natural hair, people ask, “Are you okay? Are you depressed?”

My Sisterlocks Journey

I shared my sisterlocks journey publicly on YouTube, and it was a decision I made for me. But it hasn’t been easy.

I’ve been mocked, judged, and criticized—mostly by my own community. Black people told me I looked “messy,” asked why I didn’t just wear wigs, or why I didn’t put on more makeup.

Some white viewers even said I should “go back to wearing wigs.” That made me angry, but at least I understood—they didn’t know better. But when Black people shame other Black people for being natural—that hurts the most.

The Billion-Dollar Wig Industry

We—Black women—have turned the hair industry into a multi-billion-dollar business. We spend more money on wigs than we do on rent. We buy eyelashes, nails, and lace fronts, but don’t pay our bills.

It takes 4–5 hours to install a lace front, and it can cost up to $500—only to last a couple of weeks. And those wigs from China? Asian women aren’t wearing them!

It’s Not Just Hair—It’s Our Bodies Too

My insecurities didn’t stop at my hair. I had cosmetic surgery after giving birth. Why? Because I felt insecure about my body.

I could say I did it “for myself,” but truthfully—there’s always some level of insecurity behind cosmetic surgery. You’re chasing an image, hoping for validation, wanting to be seen as beautiful.

Society Shaped These Insecurities

I believe society built these insecurities into us. From childhood, I was taught: straighten your hair, perm it, cover it up. That’s what’s “expected.”

Social media only made it worse. We see unrealistic standards—women with perfect wigs, lashes, and bodies—and we try to look like them, even when it’s not who we are.

The Impact on the Next Generation

Kids are watching us. They’re thinking, “One day I’ll look like her,” meaning with wigs, lashes, and layers of makeup. But when we strip all of that off in the morning—what do we really look like?

We’re drifting farther away from our ancestors. They were accepted just as they were. We need to find our way back to that truth.

My Path Toward Acceptance

I’m still on my journey. I’m not saying I’ve fully overcome my insecurities. I’d say I’m about 98% there—the last 2% is still in progress.

I’m working on:

• Wearing wigs less

• Wearing lighter makeup

• Choosing thinner lashes

• Embracing my natural hair more

I honestly believe that we, as Black women, suffer from a kind of body dysmorphia—we struggle to accept our true selves. So many women with beautiful, thick, natural hair hide it under wigs because they fear rejection.

A Message to My Sisters

If you’re a woman who doesn’t wear wigs, doesn’t pile on makeup, doesn’t wear heavy lashes—you are amazing. You’ve already accepted yourself.

For women like me, we still have work to do. We need to meditate, pray, and seek therapy. We need to ask ourselves, “Why am I doing this? Why can’t I just be me?”

Beauty comes from within—from the heart. Someone can look beautiful on the outside but be ugly on the inside. Love me for who I am, not for how well I fit into someone else’s standards.

In Conclusion

After seven years on YouTube, I’m proud of the woman I’ve become. I’m still learning, still growing, still praying to be a better version of myself each day.

I don’t need validation from the world. All I need is to accept myself—100%, unapologetically.

This is Bethany, and this is my journey.