I remember the first time that I was called pretty. I was eight years old. I remember feeling a bubble of insecurity hover around me, like an ant under a microscope. At eight years old, I had experienced my very first wave of expectations of women in a male dominated society. I had no idea that would be the first of many by the time I reached womanhood. I was just a child. I loved playing in the dirt, and capturing bull frogs. I was a girl who played like a boy. I never thought I was pretty, not because I had low self esteem, but because I was eight years old. I was to young to have pretty wrapped up in my identity. Fast forward eight more years. I am sixteen now. I am no longer playing in the dirt, or capturing bull frogs. I am painting my nails bright pink, and dying my hair every two weeks. I am trying to be pretty. I am no longer feeling the bubble of insecurity. I am living in it twenty four seven. I am always concerned with how I look, how I act, and what I say. I am a girl who is no longer a tomboy. I am just a girl. I no longer know who I am, because I am not allowed to be who I am. I am expected to sit quietly in the corner, straightening my hair, perfecting my makeup, so that a boy who loves my body can tell me he loves me, and make me his wife. Fast forward 4 more years. I am twenty now. I am numb to the insecurity. I am now expected to live in a suburb, raise three kids, clean the house, love my husband, and my white picket fence. I am just another girl who is seen as pretty. I am living a lifeless life. I am at a crossroads to either stay down under the weight of societies expectations, or burn my picket fence right down to the ground. I am remembering that tomboy I was before I was called pretty. I can either reconnect with her fierceness, or hide beyond a mask of beige concealer. I can either be a dove, or I can be a phoenix. I think the choice is obvious.