the fear of ordinary

on being wanted when the shine fades

There’s a quiet fear pressed within me—the whisper that I’m only lovable when I am blooming. When I’m in full color: petals open, voice steady, head held high. But what remains when the flower wilts—when I am small, soft, and plain? Would anyone choose me then, when I am no longer radiant but simply there? I want to believe love endures through the off-seasons, yet sometimes I worry I’m kept like a bouquet: admired for a moment, then gently set aside when the beauty fades.

I wonder who would reach for me if I stopped being impressive. If the gold peeled, the smile slipped, the polish wore away. If I cried ugly tears, forgot how to be clever, showed up with nothing but my tired heart and raw grief. If I dared to be ordinary—would you hold me still, or would I vanish like dust in a sunbeam, visible only when the light was kind? Am I lovable only as a success story, stitched tight with effort, always edited, always composed? Sometimes I want to fall apart just to know if anyone would care enough to catch the pieces.

Maybe I am afraid that love is conditional—measured in offerings I can hold up for approval. I wonder if I’d still be wanted when there is nothing left to present. When the essay isn’t written, the trophy isn’t won, the room doesn’t turn. Would anyone stay when I am not glowing but muted, undone, ordinary? I don’t want to be chosen for my light if no one will sit with me in the dark. I don’t want applause for a performance, I want presence when the curtain never rises. I want to be kept when there is no show—when all I have left is my quiet, unremarkable self.

Maybe it started early—a bargain I struck with the world. If I was good enough, bright enough, I would be worthy of love. I learned to measure myself in applause, in test scores, in the flicker of approval behind someone’s eyes. Love, I thought, was something you purchased with medals and gold stars. But what happens when the elegance cracks, when the wings are clipped, when the feathers are muddied? Would you toss me aside, or tuck me close, keeping me even then? Could you love me without my accomplishments?

I grew up on books that promised it was a gift to be different—that uniqueness was what made you lovable. The odd one out, the girl with crooked glasses, was supposed to be secretly extraordinary, destined to shine brighter than the rest. And I believed them. I thought being unusual was my ticket to belonging. If I could be rare enough, brilliant enough, I would never be left behind.

But what if I’m not rare? What if I’m not the heroine, but just another girl—average, unremarkable, blending into the rows of faces? What if the crooked glasses are only crooked glasses, not a symbol of hidden magic? The fear seeps in: that without distinction, without proof of being exceptional, I am nothing worth holding onto. That unless I’m extraordinary, I’ll always be passed over for someone brighter.

And maybe that’s why I’ve clung to the bargain so long—that love is earned through exception. That if I gathered enough achievements, I could protect myself from ordinariness, from being forgotten. But deep down I wonder: was I ever chasing love, or only chasing safety? Maybe the truth is that I’m still terrified of being chosen simply as I am—without petals, without trophies, without any disguise of specialness at all.

I’ve never been the kind of girl who could rely on beauty or privilege to carry her. I’m not conventionally attractive, nor born into wealth or status. There were no shortcuts handed to me, no easy glow that made people turn their heads. And so I learned early that my only option was to prove myself in other ways—to polish my work, sharpen my talents, build a shine that couldn’t be ignored. If I couldn’t be loved for effortless charm, then maybe I could be loved for effort itself.

Sometimes, I wonder what it would feel like for someone to look past my résumé and my intelligence. Because what if one day I started to fall behind? If I grew too tired to pay attention in class, if I simply couldn’t bring myself to study for another test? Would I still be worth choosing then—when the medals tarnish and the grades slip? I want to believe there is a kind of love that lingers even when the shine dulls, a love that does not keep score. A love that holds me not because I am impressive, but because I am me.