The Best Mascara Is For Crying

Mascara isn’t just about enhancing lashes; it’s a beauty tool that captures life's emotional spectrum. It highlights the eyes, framing the 'windows to the soul,' but also exposes us to the vulnerability of emotions. When tears fall, mascara streaks across the face, leaving visible marks of the feelings we often try to keep hidden, especially when the mascara claims to be waterproof. The dark lines down our cheeks remind us that no matter how polished we try to appear, life has a way of breaking through. But that mess, that act of wiping away the streaks, becomes its own ritual. It’s a moment of acceptance, a way of regaining composure after allowing ourselves to feel deeply.

Think of the nights when tears brim over the edge of our eyes, blurring the world as they roll down our cheeks, smudging carefully applied makeup. At that moment, mascara becomes more than a cosmetic—it’s a witness to vulnerability, a silent participant in the cathartic release of emotions. Those dark streaks that run down your face aren’t failures but physical reminders of the power of breaking down and letting go. Sometimes, we feel the most human in these messy, tear-streaked moments.

Mascara is for crying because it doesn’t just define lashes; it represents the experience of release. It’s the smudge on a pillow after a night of crying over a heartbreak or the streak down a cheek during a painful goodbye. These moments of rawness and emotion aren’t something to hide or fix; they’re part of the beauty of being alive. With its dual purpose, Mascara becomes a metaphor for the balance between holding it all together and letting it all fall apart, reminding us that beauty isn’t just in perfection—it’s in the mess, too.

When I wear mascara and cry, it’s oddly therapeutic. Watching my makeup melt off in the mirror feels liberating, as if my emotions, so long contained, are finally undeniable. The mess on my face reminds me that I’m human, capable of feeling deeply, and that’s okay. I can survive it. My face may be streaked, my eyes red and puffy, but I still stand. There’s a lesson in that: it’s okay to be a little smudged.

Even so, I hesitate every time I reach for the mascara. It’s not just about the fear of crying—it’s about the vulnerability it represents. Mascara, for me, is a sign of emotional openness. It’s a willingness to let people see me for who I am: flawed, sensitive, and human. I’m not always ready for that level of exposure. I like my walls and neat exterior, and I know I can keep my emotions in check. Mascara introduces unpredictability, which I’m not always comfortable with.

At its core, mascara symbolizes resilience. Every careful application across delicate lashes is a silent commitment to holding it together for the day, even if life threatens to unravel it. When the tears come, it’s as if we’re peeling back those layers of control, exposing our raw emotions. Yet, through the mess of smudged mascara, there’s an undeniable beauty. It’s not the perfect, polished look we aim for, but rather the beauty of vulnerability—of letting go and embracing our humanness. There’s freedom in that mess in acknowledging that it’s okay to be imperfect and emotional.

I often think mascara is for people who don’t question their emotional resilience. They swipe it on without wondering if the day might undo them. They trust that their makeup will stay intact, and even if it doesn’t, they seem unfazed by the potential mess. To some, the thought of makeup running feels like an admission that they’ve lost control, and they rather avoid setting themselves up for that possibility.

I love how mascara looks. It darkens my lashes and makes my eyes pop like I’m fully present and in control. But there’s a fragility to it. Each lash feels like a tiny fraction of my emotional stability; it only takes one tear to unravel it. Applying mascara feels like a quiet promise to the universe: Today, I won’t come undone. Yet, that’s often the day everything decides to go wrong.

Maybe that reflects how I generally deal with emotions—cautiously, with second-guessing and overthinking. My mind constantly spins scenarios and analyzes outcomes, so putting on mascara can feel like opening a door I’m unsure of walking through. Sometimes, I wonder if my aversion to mascara is part of a larger issue—my reluctance to embrace the messiness of life entirely. What if something terrible happens? What if I’m reminded of a sadness I’ve been pushing down? Mascara feels like a gamble.

I want things to be neat and controlled, but life isn’t like that. Life is messy, people are messy, and maybe I’m messy too, no matter how hard I try to stay put together. Wearing mascara feels like a small rebellion against the part of me that I want to keep hidden. It’s saying, Yes, I might cry today, and that’s okay.

Maybe I’ll cry, and maybe my makeup will run, but I’ll wipe my face, laugh at the streaks, and move on until the next time it happens. After all, life is about embracing the mess, accepting imperfection, and letting yourself feel even when it’s inconvenient. So maybe tomorrow, I’ll put on mascara. Perhaps I’ll swipe it on and not worry about the tears because crying with mascara on might not be the worst thing. It might even be a sign that I’m learning to embrace the beautifully unpredictable, messy parts of being myself.