Words by Sadeen Jalal // photograph by Andrej Lišakov
There was a semester in university where my entire personality was about “glow ups.” I was convinced that if I could just fix myself hard enough, my real life would finally start. My alarm was set for 5 a.m., and every morning it would rip through the dark while my eyes burned from scrolling in bed the night before. I’d lie there bargaining with myself if I skip the gym, I can sleep another hour. But then I’d picture that future version of me,toned arms, clear skin, colour‑coded Google calendar, always “on” and I’d drag myself up because apparently she didn’t sleep in.
My days became a checklist, work out before class, drink two litres of water, 10 minutes of journalling about my “future self,” eat something vaguely green, get good grades, be a good friend, look put-together. If I missed even one thing, it felt like I’d ruined the whole day. I remember one morning crying in the shower because I’d slept through my alarm and “only” had time to wash my hair and rush to uni. I wasn’t upset about being tired. I was upset that I’d failed at being the girl I thought I was supposed to become.
The internet made it worse. My feed was full of wellness girls who woke up at sunrise, did pilates in matching sets, read three books a week, and still had time to make chia pudding in mason jars. I had a folder on my phone literally called “Glow Up Inspo.” I’d scroll through it at midnight, telling myself, “Next week, I’ll start for real. Next week, I’ll become her.” Then next week would come, I’d last two or three days, and the moment I slipped, slept in, skipped a workout, ate something “wrong” I’d spiral into shame. It wasn’t self‑care. It was self‑hate with a cute aesthetic.
At some point, it hit me that I was constantly auditioning for a role I never actually wanted. I didn’t care about green juices. I cared about having energy to show up to my life. I didn’t want to be the girl who was always “on”; I wanted to be the girl who could sit on the floor in her pyjamas at night, and eat noodles without turning it into content. But I had spent so long chasing this glow up version of myself that I didn’t know who I was without her.
The turning point wasn’t glamorous. One night, after a full day of classes, commuting, and trying to tick off my little pastel habit tracker, I opened my alarm app and just…turned off the 5 a.m. alarm. No backup. No “just in case.” My heart was pounding like I’d done something dramatic, even though all I’d done was choose sleep.
The next morning, my body did what bodies do when you stop waging war on them: it slept. When I finally woke up, the room was already bright. For a few seconds, I felt peaceful. Then the panic kicked in my brain screamed at me: “You’re behind. You’re wasting time. Everyone else is already out there improving themselves and you’re lying here drooling on your pillow”. I almost launched myself out of bed to “make up for it,” but instead I forced myself to move slowly, wash my face, make coffee, sit down, breathe. It felt wrong and right at the same time.
Nothing magical happened that day. I didn’t suddenly love myself or delete Instagram. But I noticed I wasn’t snapping at people as much. I actually tasted my breakfast instead of inhaling it between tasks. I laughed more, and for once, didn’t think about whether I looked “aesthetic.” That tiny act of not punishing myself for resting planted a seed: what if my body wasn’t the problem? What if the expectations were?
Slowly, I started experimenting with a different kind of glow up. One that didn’t involve before‑and‑after photos or a five‑step morning routine. I let myself sleep in when I was exhausted. I said no to plans when my social battery was dead instead of forcing myself to show up and then resenting everyone there. I read books just because they were fun, not because they were “inspiring.” I let myself be average at things I loved, bad dancing, worse singing, messy journalling, and didn’t turn any of it into proof of anything.
I won’t pretend I never compare myself anymore. I still catch my brain reaching for that old folder of “Glow Up Inspo,” still feel that familiar itch to reinvent myself every time I see someone’s transformation reel or compare myself to other girls with the perfect body and perfect skin. But now, when that urge comes up, I try to pause and ask: am I doing this from care or from shame? Will this help me feel more like myself, or just more like someone the internet might approve of?
These days, my glow up looks boring from the outside. It’s closing my laptop when my eyes hurt, even if I could squeeze in one more task. It’s choosing a nap over a productivity video. It’s crying on the bathroom floor sometimes and not turning it into a lesson, just letting it be a moment. It’s texting my friends, “I actually don’t have the energy to hang out tonight, but I love you,” and trusting that they’ll still be there. It’s allowing my life to be a little bit unphotogenic and a lot more real.
If you’re stuck in that same cycle of waiting for your “after” picture to finally feel worthy, this is the gentlest thing I can say: you don’t have to become a different person to deserve rest. You don’t have to earn your softness by being hard on yourself first. The version of you who messes up, oversleeps, eats instant noodles for dinner, and cries in the shower? She deserves care too. Especially her.
Maybe the real glow up isn’t waking up at 5 a.m. and changing everything. Maybe it’s waking up one day, looking at the exhausted person in the mirror, and deciding that she’s not a project, she’s a person. And people are allowed to rest.
