Before I start, I need to clarify something, even if it makes people uncomfortable.
This is not an anti-looksmaxxing or bluepill text.This is a personal reflection written from the other side of change — from the point where self-improvement stops feeling heroic and starts becoming dangerous if the mind doesn’t update along with the body.
I’m writing this because if I don’t, it keeps looping in my head like a wound that never fully closes.
The last few months have been hard. Too hard.
I changed very fast — so fast that my mind couldn’t keep up with who I am now.
For years, I looked at myself in the mirror and saw the same face:
inflamed, acne, water retention, a recessed jaw, weak maxilla, dry and stiff hair, a swollen head and nose, awkward expressions.
But it wasn’t just what I saw.
What weighed the most was what people told me.
“You look like you have steel wool for hair.”
“Balloon head.”
“Toucan nose.”
“I look at you and I can’t take you seriously with that face.”
Hearing that once hurts.
Hearing it for years builds you.
That image didn’t just describe my face — it described who I believed I was.
It wasn’t “I look bad.”
It was “this is who I am.”
And now, in just a few months, that finally changed.
The inflammation went down. Bone structure appeared. My gaze became more positive. My hair gained shape and shine. I started receiving looks on the street. Different treatment. Clear signals that something is different.
But my mind doesn’t fully believe it.
After so many years convinced I was someone else, even though that person no longer exists, I still haven’t managed to erase him from my head.
I look at myself and think: how can this be me?
And then the fear appears:
What if this is temporary?
What if I’m actually still the old version and I just don’t realize it?
What if I only look like this in the mirror?
The worst part is that nothing bad has to happen.
All it takes is losing control for a moment.
An hour without a mirror.
The wind messing up my hair.
A strange reflection.
And the old image takes over again.
Not because I’ve physically gone back, but because that image was reinforced from the outside for years.
It wasn’t born only from a mirror, but from looks, comments, and laughter that taught me my face was a problem that needed justification.
When there’s no reference, my mind doesn’t invent something new.
It goes back to what was repeated.
To what was learned by force.
That’s why letting go of control is so hard now.
Not because I’m vain, but because for a long time I learned that lowering my guard was dangerous.
My mind doesn’t obsess because it wants more.
It obsesses because it learned that if I didn’t monitor myself, someone else would.
It also hurts to look back.
Knowing I discovered looksmaxxing early.
That I heard about mewing, nasal breathing, habits —
and didn’t take them seriously.
That I was a distracted, immature kid, focused on other things.
And now my mind punishes me with “if only you had started earlier.”
But that’s unfair.
I was a child.
I didn’t have the mental structure to sustain any of this.
Judging that kid with the information I have today is cruel.
The truth is this:
I’ve already done everything that was within my control.
I can’t create centimeters of jaw through willpower.
I can’t rush biological processes.
What’s left now is time.
Adapting to the new version of myself.
Letting habits finish their work without monitoring them every second.
And here’s the hardest part to accept:
what got me here is not what will take me to the next level.
Insecurity.
Hyper-awareness.
Constant analysis.
That helped me escape the bottom.
But now it’s working against me.
Real attractiveness isn’t built through mental warfare.
It’s sustained through calm.
Through consistency.
Through presence.
I don’t need to do more.
I need to stop looking at myself all the time.
Even if my mind doubts.
Even if I feel insecure.
Even if I don’t know exactly how I look.
My face doesn’t regress in an hour.
My progress doesn’t disappear because of the wind.
My value doesn’t depend on constant control.
I’m no longer who I was.
But I haven’t fully inhabited who I am now.
And that hurts.
But it’s not a mistake.
It’s part of the process.
My task now isn’t to correct myself.
It’s to stay.
To stay in this version long enough for it to become mine.
There’s something else I need to say, even if it makes people uncomfortable.
The black pill was a turning point for me.
I won’t deny it.
It woke me up when I was living in self-deception.
It pulled me out of the endless gymcel loop: body improving, face stagnating.
It forced me to look at reality without makeup — genetics, hierarchies, real limits.
It pulled me out of naive bluepill thinking.
Without the black pill, I probably would’ve never taken looksmaxxing seriously.
But I also have to admit this:
the black pill is not a place to stay.
It’s a stage.
A shock.
A push.
But if it becomes your home, it dries you out.
Because even when it contains truths, it’s built on frustration, resentment, and constant comparison.
Rankings. Paranoia. Measurement.
It gives clarity.
But if you stay there, it makes you rigid —
unable to enjoy progress because something is always missing.
And that’s exactly what’s happening to me.
I’m still looking at the world through blackpill lenses even when they no longer serve me.
Still searching for myself in invisible rankings.
Still thinking of “ascension” as something that needs daily confirmation.
And that constant search is what’s holding me back the most.
The uncomfortable truth is this:
real ascension begins when you stop looking for it.
When you stop asking what tier you’re in.
When you stop analyzing every detail as if it’s definitive.
When you stop living just to correct yourself.
The black pill served its purpose.
It woke me up.
It pushed me.
It made me move.
But now I have to let it go.
Not debate it.
Not reinterpret it.
Not fight it.
Simply stop using it as a mental framework.
Because as long as I keep thinking from there, I’ll keep acting like someone who feels indebted to the past.
Like someone who still has something to prove.
And that’s no longer true.
Real attractiveness doesn’t come from obsession.
It comes from stability.
From normality.
From the calm presence of someone who’s no longer trying to be something else all the time.
Ascension isn’t reaching an ideal.
Ascension is stopping the need to compensate when it’s no longer necessary.
So even if part of me wants to keep measuring and comparing, the work now is different:
Close that chapter.
Maintain the habits.
Be grateful for what the black pill gave me.
And move forward without it.
Not because it was completely wrong —
but because it’s no longer the place I want to live from.
The real change is no longer aesthetic.
It’s mental.
And it begins when I stop searching for it.
Letting go was not giving up.
It was the final step of the ascension.
