The politics of beauty: Choice, body shaming, and the burden women carry

Joyce Oduor reflects on beauty standards, highlighting the tension between personal choice, societal expectations, and the burden women carry.

I have found myself thinking deeply about the way we talk about women’s bodies, especially after coming across a comment online that insisted women should simply accept their natural bodies and avoid “correcting” what their creator gave them. At first glance, it sounded reasonable—almost noble. But the more I sat with it, the more it began to feel disconnected from reality. Because I do not live in a world that consistently respects natural beauty. I live in a world that critiques it, mocks it and often rejects it.

That is where the contradiction begins.

I have seen how people speak about women who choose to remain natural. I have heard the jokes, the coded insults, the outright ridicule. A dark-skinned woman is reduced to a punchline, with people suggesting she disappears in the dark unless she smiles. A light-skinned woman, on the other hand, is elevated—her complexion described as “rangi ya thao,” as though her skin tone is a form of wealth. I have watched how quickly society assigns value, not based on character or intellect, but on proximity to a narrow and often unrealistic beauty ideal.

So when someone tells me that women should just embrace their natural bodies, I cannot help but ask: embrace them in which world? Certainly not the one I see every day.

I have also noticed how natural features—perfectly normal, biological, and often inevitable—are treated as flaws. Breasts that sag are mocked as “fallen soldiers,” as if they have failed some unspoken standard. Yet I know that breasts sag for many reasons: breastfeeding, weight loss, ageing, genetics. These are not failures; they are realities of living in a human body. Still, the language used to describe them strips away dignity and replaces it with shame.

I have seen women who have gone through childbirth being ridiculed because their bodies did not “bounce back.” A sagging belly becomes a source of humour, not empathy. And I find myself wondering—what exactly are we asking women to accept? Their natural bodies, or the constant humiliation that comes with them?

Because the two seem inseparable in the current environment.

I cannot ignore how deeply this culture of body shaming runs. It is not just men; women participate too. I have seen women call each other “kienyeji” for choosing simplicity over stylised beauty. I have watched as natural looks are equated with lack of exposure, lack of effort, and even lack of worth. And it becomes clear to me that the issue is not just individual preference—it is a system of expectations that defines what is acceptable and what is not.

Within that system, every choice feels like a negotiation.

When a woman decides to go to the gym, to diet, to sculpt her body, we often celebrate discipline. When she chooses cosmetic procedures like a Brazilian Butt Lift, we question her motives, her values, even her morality. Yet both decisions exist within the same context—a world that rewards certain bodies and punishes others.

I find it difficult to judge either choice, because I understand the pressures behind them.

If I am being honest with myself, I know that choosing to remain natural is not always the “easy” or “pure” option people make it out to be. It requires a kind of resilience—to exist in a space where you are constantly compared, constantly evaluated, sometimes dismissed. It means developing a thick skin in a world that does not always offer kindness.

At the same time, I also understand why someone would choose to alter their body. It is easy to call it insecurity, but that feels too simplistic. Sometimes it is about access to opportunities, to acceptance, to a sense of belonging. Beauty, as much as we may want to deny it, functions like social currency. It opens doors, shapes perceptions and influences how people are treated.

So when I hear people say, “Just accept yourself,” I cannot take it as a complete statement. I want to ask them if they are also willing to challenge the culture that makes self-acceptance so difficult. Are they calling out the insults? Are they rejecting the stereotypes? Are they dismantling the idea that some bodies are inherently more valuable than others?

Because without that, the advice feels hollow.

I have come to believe that the conversation should not be about prescribing a single path. It should not be about declaring natural beauty as superior or cosmetic enhancement as inferior. That binary does not reflect the complexity of real life.

What matters to me is choice.

If a woman chooses to remain natural, I believe she should be respected—not mocked, not labelled, not diminished. If she chooses to enhance her body, I believe she should be respected too—not judged, not shamed, not reduced to assumptions about her character. And if she chooses something in between – fitness, skincare, subtle changes – that should also be her decision to make.

What I reject is the constant questioning, the unsolicited advice, the assumption that anyone has the authority to dictate what another person should do with their body.

I am tired of a culture that criticises women from all angles, leaving no room for peace in any choice they make. It feels like a trap—be natural and be mocked, enhance yourself and be judged.

So I have settled on a position that feels both simple and radical: let people choose their struggles.

Because every option comes with its own cost. Every decision carries its own weight. And no one understands that weight better than the person making the choice.

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If we are truly interested in promoting confidence and self-worth, then we need to move beyond empty slogans about natural beauty. We need to create a culture where all forms of beauty can exist without ridicule. Where a woman’s value is not tied to how closely she aligns with a shifting and often contradictory ideal.

Until then, I will continue to question any narrative that pretends the solution is as simple as “just accept yourself.” From where I stand, it is not that simple. And pretending that it is does more harm than good.

By Joyce Oduor

Joyce, a teacher of English & Literature, teaches at Lily Senior School, Mwihoko.

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