If you’re reading this blog, you probably know me. And if you don’t — well, I guess the SEO is doing its thing, and either way, you’re in the right place.

For those who don’t know me personally (you can skip this part, mom), I’m a woman in my early twenties who spent her teenage years gooning over Korean idols. (Is “gooning” too Gen-Z? Oh well, we ball.)

I was there during the golden age of BTS — when they were stilll emerging as global stars, and paving the way for names like Stray Kids, NewJeans, ATEEZ, and Aespa. And while the alternative community was deep in their Danger Days era drooling over red-haired Gerard Way, I was collecting overpriced BTS albums and writing fanfics with six million reads (if you know, you know 👀).

And honestly? I don’t regret a thing.

It was the time of my life. I made amazing friends in the K-pop community back home, many of whom I still talk to every day. I got to perform choreographies and bond over shared obsessions. It was all pastel skirts, ramen dates, and dancing, lots of dancing!

But — and there’s always a but — the K-pop world, like all other music genres has its dark side.

Behind the perfect dances and pretty faces there is an industry that pushes young artists through brutal diets and cosmetic procedures to hit unachieavable standars of beauty. And as a teenage girl, easily impressed and completely obsessed, I wanted to be like them. My idols were skinny, pale, long-legged Asian girls with glassy skin, glittery makeup, tiny frames, and soft voices — the kind of femininity that society praises and men romanticize. They were perfect porcelain dolls.

And I wanted to be like them.
Scratch that — I needed to be like them.

So I tried. I went on insane diets. I bought way too many skincare products. I straightened my hair and wore the softest shades of makeup. I sucked in my stomach, kept my back straight, and laughed softly — never too loud, never too much. Because if I couldn’t be perfect, I could at least try to look the part.

And in the K-pop community, it was even worse. The closer you looked to the idol aesthetic — the more infantilized and petite you looked— the more people gravitated towards you. The more you resembled the stereotype, the more desirable you became.

Here’s the kicker: I’m white, with a regular body type and broader features. I wasn’t overweight, I wasn’t petite — I was just me. But I never felt like I was enough. I constantly felt too tall, too wide, too masculine. I didn’t fit the mold, and that haunted me.

Then in 2022, something changed.

I discovered My Chemical Romance — seven years late to the party, but better late than never — and saw them live in Seattle later that year. That’s when the shift began. I started diving deeper into alt rock, metal, and post-hardcore. Around the same time, I also got into photography, and that creative spark opened the door to a whole new world of expression.

After My Chemical Romance, came Pierce The Veil and Sleeping WIth Sirens with their sorrowful lyrics about heartbreaks and tragically beautiful women. Then, I stumbled upon bands like Halestorm, The Pretty Reckless, and Spiritbox — actually led by women, who were loud, commanding and unapologetically themselves. They had presence. The kind that turns heads when they walk into a room, that kind that my dad said I would discover I had eventually.

They screamed.
They stomped.
They existed fully, without shrinking themselves.

They wore leather jackets, heavy eyeliner, smeared makeup, and boots that could crush egos. They sweat on stage, flipped their hair without worrying if every strand will fall back into place, and still looked hot when their eyeliner ran down their cheeks. And I was mesmerized.

Then came the thrill.

I went, I mean, I fell (pun intended) into the Falling In Reverse and Escape the Fate rabbit hole. Throw some My Darkest Days and Get Scared, even Hollywood Undead and 3OH!3 if you may! My brain was infused with music videos where freedom is the main character — messy eyeliner, sweaty bangs, dusty boots, distorted guitars that make your chest shake and adrenaline spike. Lyrics about doing whatever the hell you want. About women who crush hearts with cocky smiles and black boots. About spilling blood, taking names and owning your chaos.

Something inside me shifted.

And for the first time in my life, I felt free. Free to be loud. To throw my hair around and laugh like a maniac. To stomp my boots and not give a damn if my bangs were plastered to my face. I didn’t want to be small anymore. I didn’t care if I wasn’t delicate or “feminine” enough to please anyone. I was proud of the woman I saw in the mirror — the one with a big presence, taking up space, refusing to shrink herself to fit anyone’s mold.

Because let’s be real — we live in a world where women are constantly reduced to how we look and what we should be. And for too long, I chased a version of myself that was never meant for me.

This music — this scene — felt like someone splashing black ink all over my pastel, glittery world.

I didn’t want to be small and soft anymore.
I didn’t want to be cute or quiet or palatable for men.
I wanted to be powerful. Gritty. Messy. Real.

That shift in my music consumption didn’t just change how I see my body — it changed how I see my life, my career, and even the kind of woman I wanted to be.

Wrapping up, because this is getting too long…

I still love K-pop, and I always will. It holds a special place in my heart. I spent most of my teenage years in that world, and it’s become this nostalgic, glittery memory I’ll always look back on fondly.

Recently, I had the chance to visit my home country and reconnect with all those friends I made through the K-pop community. We sat together, laughed, and reminisced about how silly we were — chasing this impossible, picture-perfect image we thought we had to live up to.

And if you’re in your teenage years right now, trying to shapeshift yourself to fit a certain music scene’s standards of beauty — hear me out: you don’t have to. You are fully allowed to enjoy whatever music makes your heart race without squeezing yourself into someone else’s mold.

Find your chaos. Find people who love you exactly as you are. Music brings our hearts together, and it should always be about how it makes you feel — not how you think you need to look to belong.