My Beauty, My Roots

by Zanele M., 19, South Africa

Growing up in a small township near Johannesburg, I didn’t see myself in magazines or beauty ads. Light skin, straight hair, and sharp features were praised, while girls like me—with dark skin, coarse curls, and broad noses—were often overlooked. For a long time, I believed beauty was something I had to chase, not something I already had.

It wasn’t until I started university that I began to unlearn these ideas. I met friends who wore their natural hair with pride, who dressed in bold prints, and who didn’t apologize for their blackness. One of them told me, “You don’t need fixing—you just need seeing.” That stuck with me.

I started experimenting with makeup not to cover myself up, but to play. I didn’t try to look lighter—I used rich, deep tones that matched my melanin. I highlighted my full lips, my wide nose. I wore headwraps that told stories, and earrings from local artists. Each choice I made was a small reclaiming of space.

My own beauty is rooted in my ancestry. It’s in the rituals my grandmother taught me, like using shea butter and washing my face with rooibos tea. It’s in the way I dance, laugh, and move through the world. I’m not beautiful in spite of being African—I’m beautiful because I am.

Today, I mentor younger girls in my community. I tell them that the world might try to shrink them, but their beauty is too powerful for that. I want them to see beauty not as an impossible standard, but as a language—one they already speak.

In a world still dominated by Eurocentric ideals, my beauty is an act of resistance. And more importantly, it’s an act of love.