How Do We Learn to Love Ourselves?

An essay on curly hair and identity

I’m convinced the bane of my mother’s existence has always been my tantrums over not having “white girl hair”. Smoother, straighter, and shinier…that was always the goal. Because both my parents have their cosmetology license, I had access to some of the best products money can buy, but would beg for trips to the drugstore because I believed the cheap counterparts would produce results like those promised in Pantene commercials.

I abhorred middle school gym glass, not only because I had to change into a uniform that always made my too-big-for-my-body bubble butt feel embarrassing and out-of-place, but because I only had twenty minutes to shower and change before my next class, nowhere near enough time to blow-dry and straighten my mane into a decently presentable fashion. Less sweaty but all-the-more self-conscious, I’d slink into the shadows of the halls planning responses to imaginary questions about why my hair looked the way it did. It’s interesting because I don’t remember being teased specifically for my hair—its natural lean toward volume, the waves that seemed to follow no pattern at all. What I remember is the feeling, one with an origin story I can’t seem to recall, but that has accompanied all my subsequent thoughts. For me, it was never the glaringly obvious attacks against what I had, but rather the subtle and pervasive admiration of everything I didn’t. Call it “growing up in the early 2000s” or “internalized racism”, but I learned very quickly that straight and silky equated to beautiful, and anything outside of that was “interesting”, but only in the way that made you feel like a zoo animal…other.

Little Tiana and her curls

Around three years ago, I sat down to a girls’ dinner with a friend who looked undeniably radiant. She had on an amazing outfit, but more than that, she carried this effortlessness with her. When I asked what she had done to her hair, she flippantly replied, “nothing.” I didn’t find her answer jealousy-inducing so much as I found it fascinating. I don’t think I have ever, in my thirty living years, thought to do “nothing” with my hair. And yet, this simple observation opened an extensive conversation between the two of us around embracing what you have; one that has stayed with me since the moment we had it.

That dinner was the catalyst for an opening of my heart I didn’t understand I needed. It makes sense to me now that I would begin embracing my natural hair in tandem with the broader journey of breaking free of the expectations I placed on myself to feel accepted in the world. The past few years have been a relentless re-learning of how to prioritize my needs and desires, and to find myself worthy in a system that declares the boxes to tick in order to be seen as valuable are highly specific. I continue to learn every day.

When I was in L.A. a few weeks ago, I got my first curly cut by a supremely talented textured-hair specialist I had been admiring on TikTok. It felt serendipitous considering her books were full until October, and I wholeheartedly believed receiving a cut designed specifically for my hair type was the missing piece in this long saga. I told her to cut off anything that needed to go, that I wanted to physically and metaphorically release any extra weight, split ends and other people’s opinions be damned. It would be my triumphant epilogue, the one that gives reassurance everyone turns out alright in the end. My story began with taking out my extensions, followed by countless chapters on styling techniques, with a few pages dedicated to attempting to embrace my grays. This would be the part where I finally learned to “love myself” curls and all.

The many faces of figuring out my curls

Immediately after I left the salon, I rushed into an Uber to meet Sam at a show on the east side of the city. Friend after friend poured into the venue, and each time they did I found myself nervously touching my curls, eyes pleading for affirmation the new “do” suited me. My hair was the best it had ever looked, the healthiest too, and all I could think was, “Will other people like me this way?” Friends and strangers alike were gracious with their compliments, and yet I felt small and disoriented, just as insecure as I did in those post-gym middle school halls. The most frustrating part was that, after all this time I spent learning to heal, I couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t already.

A truth I have uncovered the hard way is that we live in a world designed to obliterate our nature. We spend our entire existence crafting these fragile personas we believe are the ticket to everything we’re missing—attention, acceptance, worthiness, safety, love—only to discover that no amount of control over our image will ever fully satisfy the hunger. The extent to which we’ve experienced this varies from person to person, but the pangs remain. And so we continue to poke and prod ourselves into cages we disguise as hearty servings of self-preservation until we remember we are the only ones who possess the key to our freedom and nothing will ever fully keep us fed or safe. It starts small, a fleeting thought against the way our bodies look, so quick we don’t notice the damage, until eventually the walls we’ve built to keep the ugly bits contained are so calcified and unfamiliar they begin to slowly suffocate us from the inside out.

Speaking candidly about my struggles at a recent bodywork session, my practitioner and friend suggested we first begin with the concept of hating yourself. Hate. The bite of the word rang through me like a sonar wave. I winced as she continued to share a vision she had of the Red Beast caved in, thrashing and gnawing not at everything potentially dangerous outside of me, but everything precious inside. She remarked how easy it is to allow all that sacred energy and strength to get burned up by self-destruction. So we took a slow, long, deep breath together, sent our fists shooting toward the floor like toddlers, and I instantly felt better. Lurking in the shadow of the nasty truth that there may be parts of myself I hate, I was reminded that loving yourself could never sufficiently be encapsulated by commitment to a specific nightly regimen or positive thoughts alone. Loving yourself, in the purest sense of the phrase, happens when you are able to sit with every part of your nature—the shameful and unimpressive, along with the shiny and spectacular—and find the courage to choose tenderness and acceptance with what you have so thoughtfully and intentionally been given. It happens moment after moment, breath after breath, sip of water after sip of water. It isn’t about being healed or beautiful, or presenting yourself as something palatable. It’s about having the guts to choose acceptance, especially when you feel broken, ugly, and not quite right for the world.

Recently while getting ready for another dinner with friends, I decided to wear my hair natural. The waves were imperfect and unrefined, and although I was still mentally preparing for the comments that would be lobbed my way by well-meaning individuals whose only fault was that they’ve never walked in my shoes, choosing my natural state in the span of an in-breath felt like my moment of acceptance. Even if it was just hair and even if I decided to wear it straight again on a different day, I finally realized I could gift myself compassion and tenderness in every moment. That if I had nothing else, at least I could have that. And that felt like a victory, however small.

A week or so ago I thought to myself, “I don’t know if I can ever love myself with curly hair,” and truthfully, there are days I still don’t. But checking in with my heart in a way that doesn’t feel so complicated or daunting makes me feel hopeful that someday I might. If ever you feel like the world expects too much and your place must be defined by checking very specific boxes, I want you to take a slow, long, deep breath, send your fists shooting toward the floor like a toddler if you have to. And then when you exhale, try acceptance. Try tenderness. Try compassion. Even if only for that moment. If you don’t get it quite right the first time, you have every breath and sip of water after that too. To choose something different for yourself. To choose love.