She Doesn’t Owe You Pretty

"Teach her to reject likeability. Her job is not to be likable. Her job is to be her full self."
— Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Dear Ijeawele

my wildflower in a world of concrete—my boldest becoming,

You don’t owe the world your palatability. You don’t need to shrink to fit. You don’t need to laugh when something isn't funny or say yes when your soul says no.

I wasn’t taught that.

What I learned was this: Smile even when it hurts. Be nice, be liked, be agreeable. Make yourself digestible so no one chokes on your truth. That’s what gets you included. That’s what keeps you safe.

But safety came with conditions. And those conditions chipped away at me. I became a shapeshifter, molding myself into what I thought would make people stay. When I was excluded for being different—too bold, too opinionated, too ‘other’—I didn’t push back. I made myself smaller. I bent until I broke.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

So I burned the whole thing down. I rebelled—not with strategy, but with rage. An anger that had nowhere to land. I lashed out, not because I was cruel, but because I was caged. I stopped trying to be liked and instead became feared, misunderstood, called difficult. But for the first time, I wasn’t invisible.

It took years to sort through that wreckage—to see that I had handed my power over in the pursuit of belonging, and then tried to claw it back through defiance. Neither version was free. Neither version was whole.

Now I understand: being liked is not the same as being known. Approval is not the same as love.

I’ve learned that friendship, real friendship, isn’t built on how easy you are to be around—it’s built on how true you are when you show up. I’ve learned that one hand’s worth of people who get you fully is more valuable than a hundred who like the mask you wear.

And I’ve learned that if you ever feel alone in a crowded room, it’s not because you are unlovable—it’s because you are not being loved as your whole self.

I want more for you.

There is a cost to all that contorting. It robs you of your clarity. Your joy. Your light. And when you finally stop bending, when you finally ask, “What do I want?”—you might find a hunger inside you that no one else can feed.

So I say this to you as a promise, not just a lesson:

Stand tall. Do what your heart sings for. Wear the outfit. Say the thing. Laugh loudly. Be still when you need. Run when your spirit says run. Be weird. Be wild. Be wonderful. Be exactly who you are, even when the world calls it too much.

You are not too much. You are enough, just as you are. And you never need to dilute that to be loved.

Reject likeability, my girl. Not kindness. Not grace. But the pressure to be soft when you want to be sharp. The expectation to smile when you want to roar.

Because the real loneliness isn’t solitude—it’s self-abandonment. And the real belonging? It begins when you come home to yourself.

Let others misread your light. Let them whisper. Let them wonder. That is not your work. Your work is to be true.

Not everyone will get you.
Not everyone should.

But your people—your real ones—they will find you. They will feel your fire and say, "Yes, her. I see her."

I see you already.

And I am building the kind of world that will see you too.

Love,
Your mama