Beauty and Bullshit
White Claws, Warnings, and the Unapologetic Women Who Made Me
I recently attended my husband’s annual family reunion — a five-day Memorial Day Weekend ritual at the same Daytona Beach resort they’ve been invading for the last sixty years. It’s a generational beachside takeover with deck chairs, sunscreen, and enough White Claws to sustain a sorority house for an entire semester.
My first year was 2017, and I remember thinking, “Oh. So this is what it means to marry into a tribe.” Because this isn’t a reunion — it’s an ecosystem with bloodlines and enough family gossip to fuel a Real Housewives spin-off.
Every year, around seventy-plus people materialize poolside like it’s sacred ground — same chairs, same spot, and the same uncle serving Bloody Marys with the calm authority of a poolside saint who knows some things. There are numerous aunts, some uncles, a lot of siblings, dozens of cousins, a few lifelong family friends, random people who may or may not be related (no one’s quite sure) — and all of them belong.
But the most striking part?
The women.
There are so many women, it feels like the men were allowed to come as a courtesy. It’s like walking into a beachside boardroom where the women make the rules, are served drinks, and tell you exactly what they think — in that order.
These women don’t just take up space — they own it. Big, small, older, younger — doesn’t matter. Confidence radiates off them like SPF 100, which may have been applied with a middle finger. They wear whatever they feel good in, like nobody ever told them to be ashamed of their thighs, stretch marks, or bold choices in leopard print. And if someone did send that memo? They burned it and toasted to the ashes.
This isn’t curated confidence. It’s not a filter or a performance. It’s weathered, inherited, and worn like skin — thick with stories, soft where it counts. And the wildest part? These are the women who’ll give you their last White Claw, split their sacred resort burger like it’s communion, and watch your kids like they came out of their own uterus. Their generosity isn’t just a trait — it’s tradition. A kind of fierce, unspoken caretaking that says: you’re mine now, and I’ve got you.
They took me in like I was a long-lost cousin — no initiation, no vetting, just a “grab a drink and sit down” kind of welcome that said: you’re one of us, whether you like it or not. I’m told I’m the first person my husband introduced to the family who didn’t treat the reunion like a punishment. I came ready to swim, laugh, eat, and get roasted like everybody else — and that was enough to make me family.
And yes, society would probably call them beautiful — but that’s not the point. The point is: they don’t need the label. Their beauty isn’t up for negotiation, and they sure as hell aren’t asking for permission. And when they joke about their bodies, it’s not self-deprecation — it’s swagger. It’s “Yeah, I’ve got a belly and the audacity. Your move.”
But back on my first day in 2017? I didn’t know what to do with myself. My body confidence had come a long way — far enough to show up, but not far enough to strut. I wore a one-piece and clung to my cover-up like it was a security blanket. Meanwhile, they were out there in bikinis and cutoffs like “tone it down” was something you said if you wanted a lesson in minding your own business — wishing you had an exit strategy.
Being around them is the safest I’ve ever felt in my own skin. They are what happens when women grow up without shame — or burn any off along the way. They’re loud, soft, bold, nurturing, sexy, strong — and gloriously unfiltered. And if anyone threatens them or someone they love? They’ll throw hands, no warning needed. It’s not drama. It’s family.
This kind of confidence isn’t taught — it’s inherited. It’s passed down like recipes and attitude. These women weren’t raised to shrink. No one warned them that attention was dangerous or modesty was mandatory. I’m not even sure they know what insecurity feels like. And being around them? Honestly, it’s a damn relief. They show you the difference between being told to “love yourself” and actually witnessing what that looks like, out loud, in motion, with the sun on their face and zero fucks given.
That kind of generational confidence doesn’t come out of nowhere. It’s rooted in something deeper — something passed down.
“We’re not just individuals navigating life; we’re members of an emotional system that stretches back through generations. Patterns of behavior, beliefs, and coping mechanisms often persist through this system, influencing how we think, act, and connect.” (Ilene Strauss Cohen Ph.D., Psychology Today)
Let’s talk about my upbringing.
Picture me at ten, moving in with my father and his new wife. My stepmother — like my mother — is Mexican, with a sprawling family that operated like its own small country. She’d grown up in the 1950s on a ten-acre farm two hours west of Houston, where tradition wasn’t just respected — it was law.
There were five daughters and five sons. The girls tended to the boys. The boys could date; the girls could only dream about it. The women cleaned, cooked, and served every meal. The men were always fed first. It wasn’t partnership — it was cultural protocol. An ecosystem built on hierarchy, not harmony.
But when my stepmother turned eighteen, she zipped up her suitcase, walked out the door, and essentially said, “Nope. I’m out.” She wanted more than what tradition offered. She broke the cycle first for herself, and later for the two stepdaughters she helped raise.
She rejected the idea that women should submit to men (and still does). She had no interest in teaching us to serve. But what she did pass down was a different kind of message: be careful, be quiet, be invisible. Not because women were less — but because being seen was dangerous. Her feminism came with a warning label.
I wasn’t taught to shrink for men’s egos — I was taught to shrink because being seen meant being sexualized.
Don’t flirt. Don’t react. Don’t give them a reason.
It wasn’t safety she was guarding. It was reputation. And apparently, just existing in a female body was enough to put that at risk.
I remember once, at sixteen, a boy I liked whistled at me outside a photo studio where we were about to take family portraits. He worked inside the store — it wasn’t a catcall, just a soft whistle to get my attention. I smiled back, instinctively, without thinking. My stepmother caught it and, without missing a beat, said loudly, “Only dogs answer to whistles.”
I didn’t say anything. Just let the heat rise in my cheeks — a full-body blush of embarrassment, like I’d done something indecent without knowing why. I felt my smile collapse. I was put back in my place before I even realized I’d stepped out of it.
There were other messages, too — rules that shaped how I moved through the world. No short skirts. No tight shorts. Absolutely no bikinis. Apparently, thighs and bellybuttons were gateway drugs to virginity loss. The biggest rule? No makeup until my sophomore year of high school — and even then, mascara was somehow off-limits. She never explained why everything else was fine but that one crossed a line. All I got was: “Because I said so.”
One day, I broke the rule. Just a little. I slipped on a coat of mascara before school — nothing dramatic, just enough to feel like I belonged. Like the other girls who’d already mastered all the 80s makeup trends. (For the record, I rocked that blue eyeshadow.) That just happened to be the same day my stepmom surprised me with McDonald’s at lunch — something she’d never done before.
Naturally.
She clocked it instantly, despite my best efforts to avoid eye contact. It was mentioned casually — no scene, no scolding. But later that day, she confiscated all my makeup for two weeks.
To be fair, I’d disobeyed. I’d been sneaky. But it was hard not to feel like the punishment was about something bigger — like wanting to feel pretty made me shallow. I didn’t just lose the makeup. I lost the feeling it gave me: a flicker of beauty, a sense of belonging. When I tried to plead for my compact back — just something to cover my teenage acne — I was shut down without hesitation.
It was one of the first times I felt confidence came with conditions. And apparently, mascara was a path to moral decay.
“Women are often taught in purity culture that they are supposed to be responsible for averting the male gaze, and if they receive unsolicited attention from that, that it is their fault. And it is a very harmful, vicious cycle of shame that can take a very long time to undo.” Hannah Mayberry, LMHC
Maybe she wasn’t trying to shame me or control me — maybe she was just trying to slow me down. Keep me from growing up too fast. Maybe all those rules were her version of safety, dressed up as modesty and obedience. It wasn’t exactly nurturing. It wasn’t liberating. But maybe it was love — in a language that sounded more like: “Eat what you’re served, watch your mouth, and for God’s sake, don’t let anyone see your thighs.”
With my firm placement in Gen X — the original latchkey kids — having authoritarian parents was practically our generational brand. Our Boomer parents, raised on conventional family values, mostly passed those on. But those “values” often came packaged with rigid gender roles and emotional expectations that stifled identity more than they nurtured it.
In 1971, developmental psychologist Diana Baumrind introduced three major parenting styles: authoritarian, authoritative, and permissive. The authoritarian parent maintains strict control and expects obedience without question. The authoritative parent still sets clear rules but encourages independence within those limits. The permissive parent is warm and attentive but avoids structure — often leaving kids to navigate without much guidance.
In looking back at my teen years, it was clear I had an authoritarian parent in my stepmother. And don’t get me wrong — I’m not here to complain. I’m a fifty-four-year-old woman who now lives her life on her own terms. But the mental residue of those early years — the insecurity, the fear of being seen, the slow erosion of self-worth — didn’t just evaporate when I turned eighteen.
In her thesis The Relationship between Parenting Styles and Self-Esteem for Successive Generations, researcher Molly Bee observed a decrease in self-esteem from Baby Boomers to Generations X and Y (Millennials). She speculates that changes in parenting styles — especially the strict control Gen X grew up under — may have contributed to that drop in confidence.
Interestingly, she also notes that many Gen-Xers, reacting to their own authoritarian upbringing, swung in the opposite direction with their own kids. They became more permissive — less structure, more emotional freedom — which, ironically, may have also led to lower self-esteem in Millennials. One overcorrected and the other under-corrected. And somewhere in between, we all got a little lost.
Bee references Baumrind’s idea that American parenting has shifted with how we’ve historically viewed children:
“… as a refractory savage, a small adult, or an angelic bundle from heaven.”
That first one — refractory savage — stuck with me. Because even if no one ever used those words, it’s exactly what it felt like. Like I was wild by default. Too visible. Too tempting. Too much. The message wasn’t just “be good.” It was “be modest, be small, and never look like you’re asking for attention — especially from men.” As if feeling confident or wearing something that didn’t scream ‘invisible’ was somehow provocative. (Spoiler: it’s not.)
Need a good example? I have one for you.
I once got in trouble for something I hadn’t even done yet. I can’t remember what the offense was — mostly because there wasn’t one. Just a vibe. A suspicion. My stepmother squinted at me and said, “I was your age once. I know how you think.”
That was enough. Intent didn’t matter. Neither did evidence. The fact that I might someday make a bad decision meant I was already guilty. Punishment wasn’t about behavior — it was about potential. There wasn’t even a history to suggest I was headed there — just the assumption that all roads would lead to trouble.
And honestly, that was the parenting energy across the board. When I was finally allowed to date at sixteen, I had to bring my eleven-year-old sister along like a pint-sized parole officer. Either that or double-date under the watchful gaze of another teenager—my best friend. (Let me just say, having my bestie didn’t invoke an extra sense of good behavior.) Independence was technically permitted — but only under surveillance.
That’s the legacy of being raised as a “refractory savage.” You weren’t taught to trust yourself — you were trained to assume you’d blow it. Sooner or later. Might as well start now.
Growing up like that doesn’t just teach you caution — it trains you to second-guess everything about yourself. You start thinking your thoughts are suspicious, your body’s a threat, and confidence is something you clearly haven’t earned. It’s not just modesty; it’s moral performance. Self-worth comes with conditions, and those conditions usually involve silence, shapewear, and pretending you’re not mad. You learn that being visible is risky, and being too sure of yourself? Practically a punishable offense.
Clearly, my upbringing didn’t come with the atmosphere that shaped the women in my husband’s family. Their confidence seemed built-in — like it came standard, not earned. Whether it’s the seventy-year-old aunt or the thirteen-year-old niece, they move through the world with conviction. Unapologetic. Unbothered.
Meanwhile, it’s taken me decades to feel safe in my own body — not just physically, but emotionally. To wear the bikini. To eat the burger that requires snake-like agility. To walk into a room without scanning for who might be judging.
That kind of confidence wasn’t passed down. I had to excavate it.
And sure, some of it comes with age. Statistically speaking, women over fifty tend to feel more at home in their bodies — maybe because we’ve finally stopped asking for permission to exist in them. I’m not bitter about how I was raised. I’ve made peace with it.
When I texted my stepmother a photo of me in my wedding dress a few years ago — a halter-cut lace number made for a beach ceremony — she replied, “You look beautiful! Your boobs look huge. I hate your tattoo.” I laughed. At twenty-five, it would’ve crushed me. At fifty-one? It was almost endearing. That’s the thing about confidence you earn yourself — it’s not so easy to shake.
And still, I can’t help but wonder what it would’ve felt like to grow up with that kind of unapologetic ease from the start like my in-laws. What happens when the women before you already knew they were enough?
Maybe that’s why I admire my husband’s family so much. Their confidence isn’t louder than mine — it’s just older. More practiced. Less questioned. While mine was forged in silence, theirs was handed over like a birthright.
I used to envy that.
Now? I blend right in.
Unapologetically me.
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