It was a Sunday afternoon—perfect for a bit of self-pampering. The full program: hair mask, body scrub, and yes, finally, my fingernails.
What should have been a moment of indulgent connection with my body, turned unexpectedly into a full-on rant against my nails, all because they dared to chip and break (again) while opening a soft drink can.
Me to my nails:
“I’m done with you weak, brittle freaks. You can’t hold nail polish for more than two minutes without chipping. You can’t even open a can of soda without breaking. You’re useless”
After years of frustration, I was over it. I rushed to the nearest drugstore, where they stared at me: fake, plastic-fantastic, perfect—an elegant shade of Ferrari red, well-shaped, strong stick-on nails, and the ideal length between glamorous and practical.
And I thought:
“Yes. This is what I’ve been waiting for. Let’s go home together. Let’s show those real nails what true beauty looks like.”
At home, I looked down smugly at my natural nails, about to be obscured by glossy, perfect imposters.
“See? You’ll never match this. Your time is up”
I stuck the fake nails on—thrilled with the results. I felt like a diva headed to the Met Gala in New York, even though I was just off for my daily run in the park in Kuala Lumpur. But that day, even the park felt worthy of even more celebration and even the beautiful Petronas Towers were sparkling in a beautiful colour that night.
During the first loop, I nearly tripped over my own feet because I couldn’t stop staring at my hands.
By the second loop, I was still in awe.
By the third, something unexpected happened.
A sudden wave of guilt hit me. Not the light kind. The deep, stomach-sinking kind you feel when you realize you’ve betrayed someone who’s always been there for you.
My nails had never left me. Imperfect, yes sometimes—but mine. Always trying. Always growing. Always there. They never asked for much, just a little care.
And how had I treated them?
I had ridiculed them. Compared them. Covered them up.
That wasn’t self-care. That was self-abandonment dressed in glamor.
I had been a terrible friend to these nails that had stuck with me all these years—and were now hidden away like a dirty little secret under the glamour of those fake ones.
Sure, I still cared for them—I couldn’t let them turn into Edward Scissorhands claws. I’m not that cruel.
But I didn’t say:
“Hey, you break easily, and I get frustrated. But you’re still worthy of love, care, and patience. I’m not defined by how well you hold a manicure”
I cut my run short that day and rushed back home like I was returning to a dear friend after a terrible misunderstanding. Back to the bathroom I went.
I tossed the fake nails in the bin, suddenly realizing that the physical aesthetics of those nails could never replace realness—messy, sometimes beautiful, sometimes not so much—but real.
I filed, shaped, nourished, and painted my real nails with a fun color we chose together.
I promised to treat them from now on (and really, this applies to any part of the body—not just nails) like I would a good friend: celebrating their strength, acknowledging their flaws, understanding their limits, and loving them anyway—especially because of their perceived imperfections.
If my nails had egos and strong boundaries, they might have said:
“Girl, we are done. You bash us, compare us, replace us with Ferrari-red claws from the drugstore—and now you want us back? Watch it. Tomorrow you’ll wake up with a full-blown nail fungus as punishment”
Lucky for me (and for all of us), our bodies are far more forgiving than we deserve. They keep showing up. Quietly. Loyally. Patiently.
And there’s something to be learned from that.
Because nails are part of nature.
A tree doesn’t stop standing tall just because you call it ugly.
A flower doesn’t wilt when you say another one is more beautiful.
Nature doesn’t internalize our shallow judgments. It just continues being itself—strong, silent, sovereign.
And neither did my nails.
I disrespected them—and they still grew.
That taught me something big:
Loyalty, grace, and self-worth aren’t always loud—but they are always there.
So what’s this story really about?
Not nails.
This is a story about self-love.
Because here’s the truth: whether it’s your nails, your thighs, your skin, or your curly/frizzy/flat/greying hair—we all have that “thing” we criticize. That part of ourselves we try to fix, hide, or replace.
But sometimes, the real work is not in fixing—but in loving what already exists. In appreciating what’s been quietly supporting us all along like a loyal and unique friend.
It’s easy to love what we consider beautiful, but real self-love means being anchored in yourself—even embracing what you might perceive as a flaw. Because that’s what it means to be human: to be in progress.
It’s about friendship—with yourself.
Would you ever say to your best friend:
“Your hair looks like it got caught in a sandwich maker. Hide. You’ll never be as beautiful as the girl next door”
Of course not (I hope at least)
So why do we talk to ourselves that way?
What I’m Taking With Me
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To treat myself like someone I genuinely care about—with kindness, empathy, patience, and love. To be my own best friend.
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To stop harsh self-talk—not because I’m trying to be delusional or ignore reality, but because it’s self-harming, unrealistic, and deeply disrespectful to myself. Loving yourself excludes putting yourself down.
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To say: “Sometimes you frustrate me… but I love you. Let’s go get some fun nail polish and celebrate our ongoing friendship.”
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To make peace with imperfection. It’s not a flaw—it’s part of being alive.
And should I ever slip back into my old ways (remember, I am a human in progress)—dear nails, you have my permission to place a little reminder fungus here and there.
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