About

ISABELLA SPRAGUE

Student

I grew up listening to the roaring voices of sport casters stemming from my family’s tv. There was never a moment when my dad and two older brothers weren’t huddled on the couch screaming mercy at the television screen whenever someone scored a goal, made a 3-pointer, or got a homerun for god knows what team.  Each weekend was filled with a ‘getaway’ of sorts, and by getaway I mean a 5-hour drive to an isolated city where infamous little league baseball tournaments would commence. I’d spend my Saturday in the stands, wondering when I could finally return home and not get second-hand anxiety from my dad pacing back and forth as my eldest brother performed on the pitcher’s mound. Constantly surrounded by masculinity, I took my external environment and became the opposite of it. My definition of a good time was rummaging through my mom’s makeup bag and her closet, trying on anything pink or that had sequins, or playing with my dolls and dressing them up. Whenever I wasn’t dragged to the baseball field, I’d be isolating myself in my room, doing every socially prescribed girly activity you could think of.

Fast forward ten years and I’m in middle school, finally allowed to wear makeup and dress in head-to-toe Limited Too – aka the modern Justice. Each morning before school I’d wake up at 6:30, put on my uniform, and apply Urban Decay’s glitter eyeliner across my lash line. Nothing screamed me more than too much sparkle. I still attempted to stay true to my roots: my 4’8 twig-like physique pushed itself in competition against my seemingly amazon-esque, already menstruating, counterparts – making the least skill-leveled sports team each season. Cliché catty middle school girls made comments about how small and ‘toothpicky’ I was and it made me kind of resent sports. As such, I really had no other option than accepting my lack of athleticism and putting my energy elsewhere. I soon fell into cahoots with the world of YouTube makeup gurus and online fashion bloggers, slowly mastering the art of colorful and smoky eyeshadow looks and styling outfits from my diverse array of Forever 21 and Abercrombie staples. I found myself expressing who I was through color, constantly fascinated in how I could morph it to mimic how I was feeling that day. 

My aunt on my dad’s side of the family was a makeup artist. She came to live with us when I was in eighth grade, and she gave me a full lesson on how to do my makeup in the so-called professional way. (I also got free products so that was a definite, and very exciting, plus). I was finally being introduced to puberty, so at this point, I viewed makeup as an imperfection eraser, concealing any bump or blemish in sight, and boy oh boy was I grateful. I became obsessed with my skin, and looking back on it, I was a little too obsessive. The word perfectionism comes to mind when I think of the OCD I had, and honestly still have, with my skin. Maybe it was growing up in the hyper appearance focused city of Los Angeles, or actually an atypical form of obsessive-compulsive disorder, or even just deeply imbedded insecurities, but something made me keenly aware of my imperfections. Being prone to breakouts but also having dry skin has proved itself to be a nightmare, and my fight with my skin characterizes a large portion of my teen years. 

This war soon became more like a strategic partnership. Through research and dermatologist visits, I discovered a game plan for how to take care of my skin. I fell in love with the morning and night skincare rituals I had set in place; a specified planned time where I would get off my god forsaken phone and just take a few minutes to care for myself. Growing up insecure about my physical appearance and my place in the social arena was mediated each morning and night by this meditative routine. Despite the seemingly impending doom that arose each middle school and high school day, I was always able to bring myself back to center thanks to my forever reliable Clarisonic face washer and its following skincare steps.  With my self-care in check, I was able to find more confidence and comfort with my appearance, revisiting fun eyeshadow looks each weekend as I frequented your typically notorious high school house parties. I managed to survive these high school years and felt pretty confident towards the end of it. I was able to use makeup and my love for skincare as a means of self-expression and self-love. 

To this day I still have a love for beauty and skincare. I am one of Sephora’s VIP-Rouge members elites, and I vivaciously read beauty blogs like it’s my job. However, my reason for using makeup and doing skincare has somewhat shifted. Don’t get me wrong, I still love my routine and the aspect of care I give myself within my skincare rituals. But now I do these things to enhance my natural beauty, not cover up or hide my imperfections, but rather embrace them and create a look for myself that brings out my favorite features. 

I use makeup to represent what feels like me and what makes me feel undeniably beautiful on the inside.