The sun exists so peacefully, bringing light and warmth to all that live beneath it. Yet, for too many brown women, the sun has always been an enemy ― its light too blinding, its heat too unbearable. We keep to the shadows where the sun’s rays never reach. The threshold between light and dark. Afraid to cross those boundaries, in fear that we’ll be diminished ― all for social assimilation ― all for someone else to acknowledge the beauty that lies in the hues that paint our skin. Countless brown women are victims of the ideal that paleness equates to beauty, and anything else is unacceptable. I am no exception. This poisoned ideal has spread and festered in places that should bring us comfort and joy but instead, left us feeling cold and uncertain.

“I married your dad, hoping you two would turn out fair-skinned,” my mom says casually one day. We were all lounging on the brown leather sofas that are pushed up against adjacent walls, worn and cracked from age and mistreatment. An episode of Chopped is playing on the T.V. Ted Allen announces that purple cauliflower is among the mystery ingredients in the appetizer round. My mother’s comment was probably meant as a joke or a half-joke, at least, but I remember the slight pang in my chest when she said that.

So, I did what I usually do: met her with a snarky reply. “Well, that’s your fault, isn’t it?” Looking back, I should have treated her comment with more understanding and sympathy. It hurt at that moment, yes, but her own story isn’t so different from mine. Despite all the ridicule she faced because of her dark skin, she lives comfortably in her own skin and exudes confidence and strength without so much as an afterthought for anyone else’s opinions. As brown women, we inherit the struggles of our mothers and grandmothers ― we must learn to overcome, adapt, and bear heavy weights, both of our traditions and the wider world; especially when you are obsidian instead of pearl.

My sister and I have complexions that are between both my parents. If you asked me to describe the colour of my skin, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. It lacks the pale coolness of alabaster, the sweetness of peaches and cream, and it isn’t quite mocha. Those words conjure images of fair and gentle princesses from storybooks, the ones who sing sweetly to their animal companions. Never do you hear of lovely princesses with brown skin, because lovely princesses don’t have brown skin. And that’s all my skin is, just brown. I was never concerned by my complexion as a child, but as I got older, especially when I started wearing makeup, I took more notice.

My hyperpigmentation became a source of shame, especially because people were constantly pointing it out. I tried countless skincare products, hoping it would magically rid the dark patches that made me feel dirty. I knew it was pointless because it was just a result of the melanin in my skin, but regardless, I tried. When I looked for foundation or concealer, the shade range either made me laugh or seethe with well-contained anger; I’ve seen more range for skin colour in a crayon box. I’m just kidding. But the shades of ivory far outnumber the shades for darker skin.

It’s sad to not be able to find yourself in a box of crayons or a range of foundation shades. After the third or fourth failure to find your match, you tend to make do with what you find because you know those are your only options. It’s become an everlasting bad joke when high-end brands release foundations or concealers that are startlingly black and white, that are insufficient in capturing the nuance and allure of human skin in its various multitudes ― but even more so, it’s shameful on the companies’ parts because it’s as if we don’t exist. Brown women fail to be seen; we are forced to fade into the light rather than embrace the darkness. If I’m lucky, I find a shade just slightly lighter than my complexion that I can mix with another product. If not, I look like a pumpkin. Although, it’s not completely hopeless; brown women are rising up as entrepreneurs in the beauty industry to give their sisters a chance to be seen, to let their melanin glisten.

Light skin is so favoured in the brown community that I grew up hearing off-hand comments like, “She’s dark but she’s pretty,” or “Their kids will be cute since she’s fair.” My own mother holds on to the hope that my complexion will lighten as I get older. In the brown community, there is a custom: the night before the wedding, the bride is smeared with haldi ― turmeric paste ― from head to toe, to make her glow. She must sleep like that until the next morning, on a mat. Pain is beauty after all, or rather, colourism is. Any brown girl that has dabbled in DIY skincare knows that turmeric is a lightening agent. But at least that’s natural; usually Fair and Lovely, a bleaching cream, is championed and pushed towards young brown girls by some of their overbearing mothers, in preparation for their future marriages (I was lucky on that front). No one wants a dark-skinned bride. Stay out of the sun, wear long sleeves and pants, don’t drink so much tea, it’ll make you dark. Light skin is a marker of beauty, intelligence, and desirability.

In Bollywood, the Indian film industry is drenched with colourism. The actresses are all milky with pale coloured eyes, so fair that, when they blush, it seems as if all the blood has rushed to their faces. Soft and beautiful like Snow White. I don’t see myself in them, no matter how much I secretly wish I was them. But I do see myself in the servants in those movies, dressed poorly, barely there, and glistening with melanin underneath. If ever a part of the main plot, they are the villains ― dastardly and brimming with malicious intent. Even in Hollywood, if I had to think of one actress on-screen that looked like me, it would be Mindy Kaling. One actress. Yes, that’s still a win. But it’s not enough. There’s no doubt that she fought and clawed for her roles, for her success. It shouldn’t be so hard, fighting to be represented because you’re not their ideal of beauty according to archaic notions. Lighter skin means a free pass into things that take darker-skinned women years to accomplish, things we’re still trying to accomplish.

Dark skinned women are alluring. We are ethereal. It’s time we reclaimed these words for ourselves. Women of all shades are incredibly beautiful. It’s so easy to champion others, to support them, and love them. But when it comes to yourself, it’s never so simple. I want to love myself, love my melanin, but the requirements for an idealized beauty are stuck within the recesses of my mind. I know that brown families mean well. In their minds, their hurtful comments register as well-meaning guidance. This guidance is rooted in views that are older than them. They are easy and normal, like waking at the same time every day. I choose to forgive them even when the anger and the hurt cloud my heart; all because I know that I and other brown women can do better ― we can break the shackles that keep us in the shadows. With us, brown women will no longer fear the sun.

There are still days where I ache for soft, pale skin and coloured eyes. I’m tired of the pigmentation that never goes away and is difficult to hide, even with the use of makeup; always covering up in the sun, putting on copious amounts of sunscreen even though I know its purpose is to protect from UV rays and nothing more. I have this strange fear of yellow and orange. I know that seems silly, but I was taught that dark skin doesn’t pair well with those colours, that I’d look fluorescent instead of effervescent. They were just afraid to see me burn bright. I wish I could embrace my skin like some girls that look like I do, glowing, with their heads held high, Goddesses in their own right. I would love to remember that the sun loves me, I am its daughter, sun-kissed and radiant. Instead, I feel dark and ugly like I should remain in the confines of my room, never seeing the light of day. Sometimes, I do. Sometimes, I don’t. It’s a process, iterative as it is. But hopefully, one day, I will be able to slip comfortably into my skin that is beloved by the sun ― the sun that beckons me to bask under its warmth ― and never curse it again. Instead, I will call my skin ― that lacks the pale coolness of alabaster, the sweetness of peaches and cream, and isn’t quite mocha ― home.