The Degrading Scale
I am a young girl watching a frail actress flash a smile to the camera, her tan, thin legs filling the TV screen. That evening, I pass a billboard on the way to the store, anorexic women jutting out cherry-red lips. In the checkout line with my mom, bold letters on a magazine cover catch my eye: “Is school secretly making you fat?”
At dinner I opt only for a salad. Surrounded by constant messages about the “perfect body,” I am too exhausted to care about other standards of perfection, like grades. Insecure in my personal life, I give up trying at school because I can’t bear being judged anymore.
I am too exhausted to care about other standards of perfection, like grades. Insecure in my personal life, I give up trying at school because I can’t bear being judged anymore.
Many people ditch self-acceptance in an attempt to become animatronic figures who perform like relentless machines. But humans are not robots. Perfection—the unrealistic expectations we destroy ourselves over—make us believe thigh gaps mean love, that a perfect personality exists, that straight A’s equal acceptance. I have fought tirelessly to protect my identity from the toxic mindsets that measure human worth in pounds on a scale or letters on a paper. These degrading scales ignore the nuances that can’t be measured.
I was eleven when, in the middle of a sweltering summer, my parents took my siblings and me to the public pool. After swimming ourselves tired, we went for ice cream. Shivering in the over-air-conditioned shop, I was focused on a Spongebob popsicle when several blonde girls walked in, towels around their waists, hair still wet. They looked just like me. Two men entered, their eyes immediately glued to the girls. Praise cascaded from their lips: flawless skin, straight hair, beauty akin to goddesses. They left without buying ice cream. I tried to hide my middle and arms under my towel as we collected our treats and left the store.
By fourteen, I had developed perfectionist habits. I ate less, exercised until collapse, and cycled through disordered eating patterns. My first thoughts in the morning were to pick and prod my body apart. I would stand on the scale and plead for the numbers to shrink. Then I would spend the rest of my day tallying each calorie consumed and burned. A day would be ruined if I hadn’t dropped two pounds overnight. I weighed myself three to five times each morning, stomping the scale alive day after day, goal after shifting goal. Losing weight became a torturous routine. I believed I had to change or risk humiliation.
All because I assigned a level of importance to a number.
At the same time, a similar insecurity was developing around grades in school. My small school emphasized excellence, and though teachers knew us well, you were never guaranteed an A. Students who couldn’t keep up with the pace were bound to fail. Classmates complained the work wasn’t worth the effort if success was doubtful. Some said the sheer amount of work was simply too much. Yet no one openly challenged the system. I too trusted it.
Humans aren’t meant to chase perfection; we’re meant to practice, learn, and grow. No child should feel that the only acceptable existence is a flawless one.
Elementary school was simple—lunch, naps, coloring in the lines. But by middle school I was falling behind. As A’s slipped to C’s, I convinced myself I’d never be anybody special. By high school I was drifting through classes, consumed by self-image and insecurity. I believed I had no future.
Through treatment for disordered eating, I learned to live in the present without letting fear of judgment paralyze me. After high school, I gave myself two choices: live as I am, or keep chasing numbers that pretend to define me. I chose a life of intuition, balance, and fulfillment—no scales, no grades, no measurements. Now in college, while I do still receive letter grades, I find both my self-acceptance and my education growing exponentially. The girl who gave up hope in high school would never have believed this was possible.
Patterns and perfection: our brains love them. We think if the room is clean, the grades are high, the appearance is polished, then we are safe. But that safety is really just living up to others’ judgment. These things can be good, but they are not our life’s purpose. Humans aren’t meant to chase perfection; we’re meant to practice, learn, and grow. No child should feel that the only acceptable existence is a flawless one.
Is a student really learning if they start at the top and never improve? A class without scales can make space for discussion, connection, and real growth. Students can focus on proving things to themselves, not others. They can spend more time building skills and less time in self-judgment. The appreciation and acceptance we freely extend to others can be shared with ourselves, fueling growth in every area of life.
Reframing education may not be easy, but there is no excuse for tolerating torment in the name of achievement. If we must measure something, let it be growth—not numbers on a scale or letters on a page.
Sharlyn Barrett is an English major at the Community College of Allegheny County with plans to transfer to a four-year college and pursue a career in writing. A passionate reader and writer, she has traveled to South Korea and Aruba and hopes to continue exploring the world. Sharlyn is committed to challenging rigid standards in education and to encouraging others to grow their personal skills through patience and acceptance. She was one of the three winners of our Growth, Not Grades writing contest.