A few days ago, I found myself in a moment of self-admiration with my best friend, Sujata, who has been my partner-in-crime for almost 30 years. As we glanced at each other, we marveled at how smooth and flawless our skin looked. For someone like me, who has spent years battling acne, this felt like a victory long overdue.

In the midst of this mutual flattery, I casually remarked, “I think I’m done dyeing my hair. Maybe it’s time to embrace some silver linings.” Sujata’s response? A single, piercing look that said more than words ever could. That look alone was enough to make me reconsider every strand of silver I’d just declared my love for.

But our brief bubble of happiness was soon punctured. The reality check came when the eye doctor in me realized that the newfound smoothness of our skin had nothing to do with time or skincare. It was simply because we weren’t wearing our reading glasses. One sigh, then another, and we laughed at how short-lived our delusions of youthfulness were.

Later that evening, flipping through a magazine, I noticed something curious. Most of the female models stared back at me with a face so flawless it almost looked unreal. Men mostly on the other hand, were rugged—lines, furrows, and silver streaks celebrated as markers of charisma and wisdom. I couldn’t help but wonder: why is age on a man’s face a badge of honor, but on a woman’s, it’s treated like a flaw?

That night, standing in front of the mirror, I leaned in for a closer look , of course with my glasses on this time ..And there they were—tiny lines around my eyes, furrows on my forehead, and a nasolabial fold that seemed to be deepening by the day. A part of me whispered, Should I do something about this? Maybe fillers or Botox?

Enter Sane Suvi, my brutally honest inner voice, who woke up just in time to snap me out of it.
“Are you seriously contemplating this? Who even are you right now? Moron or idiot ???”

Timid Suvi replied, “I’m a surgeon.”
Sane Suvi scoffed, “Exactly. So act like one. These lines and furrows are not imperfections—they’re the marks of every laugh, every tear, every moment you’ve lived. Do you really want to erase all that? To trade authenticity for a face that looks like it’s been shaped by a cookie cutter?”

She had a point. I thought about the people I’ve seen—those frozen, expressionless faces trying to cling to youth. The more they tweak, the more they want, because it’s never quite enough. It’s a vicious cycle, and I realized I didn’t want to step into that trap.

My lines, furrows, and silver streaks are framed by my life’s story. They whisper of years well-lived—of battles fought and won, of joy, sorrow, and everything in between. They don’t hide my soul; they reveal it.

And yet, it’s hard not to feel the weight of the world’s expectations. Magazines, ads, and Instagram feeds constantly tell us we’re one step away from perfection. But here’s the thing: perfection is an illusion. And women, more than anyone else, are made to believe they’re failing if they don’t chase it.

But why should we? Why should we erase the story that time has written on our faces? Men are allowed to age with dignity and charm—so why not us?

That night, I made a decision. I don’t need fillers, Botox, or filters. What I need is to own my story. I’m not chasing perfection—I’m embracing the silver linings (just a little bit of it though coz of frndship pinky promise ☺️☺️☺️) that frame my lines and furrows. Because these marks of time don’t diminish me. They make me shine.