Standing in front of my bathroom mirror, I begin my nightly ritual: counting the hair between my eyebrows. I run my index finger up and down, back and forth — an old, anxious tick. The skin used to feel so soft. Fuzzy, like a caterpillar. Now the gap feels sparse, coarse. My head urges me to reach for the tweezers. But another, quieter voice whispers a reminder. That my brows will never look, never feel the same again.

Before entering elementary school, I remember accepting my facial hair at face value. It was a fact of life: The sun rose and set, the subway was forever delayed, and I had strands of hair sprouting all over my face. My peers were eventually the ones to point out that my facial hair did not fit the standard of American beauty, and as a first generation Middle Eastern New Yorker, neither did I. I was called names. At first, werewolf or gorilla. But as I grew older, I was likened to a terrorist. By middle school, I had a mustache thicker than that of my male peers and had grown resentful of the features that set me apart from everyone else, labeling me as “other.” Desperate to assimilate so the teasing would stop, I begged my mother to make me a waxing appointment.

I began the endless cycle of hair removal, waxing my facial hair every three weeks. But what started as a single strand of responsibility quickly snowballed into a clogged drain of commitments. I had to shave my legs every other day and tweeze my eyebrows in the morning before school, until I could thread them later. My arms were bleached, my armpits lasered, and my nether regions Nair'd. I straightened, and eventually dyed, any stray hairs until I was whitewashing my way to the American dream. Once I fit the eurocentric standard of beauty, I was congratulated by my peers. To them, I was finally someone who blended in — but I still never felt like I fit. The breath I’d been holding never released. And when I thought about the amount of time and money I’d have to devote to keeping up the facade for the rest of my life, I grew faint.

Over a decade after my first hair removal appointment, I was traveling in Iran with my father. As a devout member of the hair industrial complex for over a decade, I was now virtually hairless. My eyebrows had grown overly thin and my upper lip unnaturally light. I sported discoloration on my arms from years of bleaching and scars from waxing accidents. My hair was damaged from straightening treatments and dyes, and my legs were covered in razor nicks. I was living the American dream, but was still trapped in a nightmare.

I had hoped a trip to Iran would prove cathartic. Like many first generation children, I’d spent my whole life feeling like my identity was fractured, split in half. Perhaps on a visit to my ancestral homeland, those cracks would begin to fill. But even the Iranian women eyed me curiously, taking in my westernized features and clothes. Once again, I was immediately labeled as “other.” My heart sank. After all the changes I made, I wasn’t Middle Eastern enough to be considered fully Iranian, not Westernized enough to be considered fully American. I still didn’t fit, and I was exhausted from trying.

But as I saw more of Iran, from Isfahan to Shiraz, I began to piece something fundamental together. Whenever I visited city centers and older, well preserved homes, I was struck by the intricate, traditional Iranian art. There, preserved in the Persian tilework, were caricatures depicting Iranian women during the Qajar period, 1794 to 1925. And in those images, I saw myself. From the exaggerated unibrows to the mustached, tiny lips, there was no doubt about it: The features I loathed most about myself were actually defining characteristics that made the artwork so beautiful. I had always fit, had always been a part of this larger tapestry of history. The time had come to take that back.

So, I abandoned the routine I had adopted as a child and began the complicated — and at times painful — process of regrowth. I removed all of the color from my hair and tossed my heated torture devices, opting for my natural curls. Although uncomfortably itchy, I allowed the hair on my arms to slowly creep its way back. But frustration bubbled when I had the realization that my body would not simply revert back to the way it once was. I had permanently stunted the growth of many of my follicles. There was nothing I could do but make peace with my new normal: not quite the girl I was born as, and not quite the woman I attempted to turn myself into. And slowly, with patience and time, my eyebrow hair is beginning to flourish. The hairs are not what they once were, now single flowers instead of a thriving, unruly garden. But they’re budding, one day at a time.

The process of regeneration is not linear. There are days when I second guess my decision after a cruel look on the subway or a snide remark from a family member at the dinner table. There are others when I feel personally disgusted and need to unpack my own revulsion in talk therapy. Sometimes, I cave and reach for my razor or twiddle with my tweezers. But I am treating this journey, and myself, with as much kindness and lenience as possible. There is no “right” way to contend with your identity.

This summer, I made the decision to tattoo an illustration from the tilework that changed my life onto my body: a proud Iranian woman, unibrow and all. It is my hope that when I stand in front of my bathroom mirror each night, the image will serve as a reminder. That I am whole, that I fit, and that I am both Middle Eastern and American enough. I am a single thread in a tapestry much larger than myself.