Pretty Privilege Doesn’t Protect You

By Trinity Barnette

People act like being pretty is a blessing. Like it’s a shield. Like the world will treat you better if you’re beautiful.

But here’s the truth: being desirable doesn’t mean you’re safe. Sometimes, it means the exact opposite.

Because what no one tells you is that beauty can make you a target. That being “pretty” to men doesn’t earn you protection—it earns you entitlement. Obsession. Control. Fear masked as flattery.

Pretty privilege might get you in the room. It might get you attention. But it does not get you respect. It does not get you safety. And it damn sure doesn’t get you peace.

The Myth of Protection

There’s this unspoken lie society loves to sell us: that beauty equals better treatment. That if you’re hot, men will treat you like a queen. That doors will open, drinks will be bought, and your life will somehow be easier.

But what I’ve learned is that sometimes the more attractive you are, the less humanity you’re given.

Pretty privilege might mean people look at you. But they don’t always see you. They see what they want. What they think they’re owed. What they can take. Your beauty becomes a transaction, a justification, a green light for bad behavior.

And when something happens to you—when you’re harassed, stalked, violated—the same people who hyped you up suddenly go quiet. Or worse, they blame you.

“Why were you wearing that?”

“You know what kind of attention you get.”

“You led him on.”

As if your appearance is an invitation. As if your body is public property. As if being beautiful somehow makes abuse your fault.

The truth is, pretty privilege is a myth when it comes to safety. What it really does is attract a kind of attention that has nothing to do with care—and everything to do with control.

Sexualization vs. Safety

There’s a difference between being admired and being safe.

A difference between being wanted and being respected.

But when you’re a woman—especially one considered “pretty”—that line gets blurred. People don’t always see you as a full person. They see parts. Curves. Skin. A fantasy they feel entitled to consume. And that sexualization? It’s not protection. It’s pressure. It’s danger dressed up as desire.

Being seen as beautiful doesn’t come with boundaries. In fact, it often erases them. Suddenly, people think they have a right to comment on your body. To touch you without asking. To DM you things they’d never say in real life. And when you don’t respond how they want? That’s when it flips.

You go from “goddess” to “bitch” in seconds.

From “so fine” to “not even that cute anyway.”

Because it was never about you—it was about them and how you made them feel.

When you’re sexualized, your safety depends on their mood. Their reaction. Their ego.

And that’s terrifying.

Because no matter how strong you are, how polite you are, how firm your no is—none of that matters when someone only sees you as something to conquer or possess.

So no, I don’t feel “lucky” to be desired.

Not when that desire comes wrapped in entitlement and disrespect.

Not when I have to walk faster, carry mace, and think twice before posting a picture.

Being sexualized doesn’t make me safe.

It makes me strategic.

It makes me guarded.

It makes me tired.

When Attention Becomes a Threat

People love to glamorize attention—especially when it comes from men.

They act like being pursued, complimented, or desired is some kind of currency. Like you should be grateful.

But attention isn’t always flattering.

Sometimes it’s invasive. Sometimes it’s aggressive. And sometimes, it’s terrifying.

I used to think there was something wrong with me for being uncomfortable with the attention I got online. But the truth is, I’ve been sexualized more times than I can count—and it has nothing to do with what I’m wearing or how I carry myself. It has everything to do with the entitlement men feel when they see a woman they find attractive.

As someone who built a large platform on Instagram—with a 96% male audience—I’ve seen the dark side of attention up close. At first, it was validating. Then it became exhausting. Then it became dangerous. I don’t even open my DMs anymore, because what waits for me isn’t praise. It’s harassment. It’s unsolicited messages. It’s verbal abuse disguised as interest.

People assume visibility equals power, but they don’t realize how often that “power” puts you in harm’s way. Because when attention becomes a threat, you stop feeling like a person. You feel like a target. And every photo, every post, every public moment becomes something you have to second-guess.

The same people who hype you up are the ones who lash out when you ignore them.

The ones who say “you asked for it” when you set a boundary.

The ones who follow you with eyes that say “you’re not allowed to say no.”

I’ve learned that attention, especially from men who don’t see you as fully human, is never protection. It’s a loaded weapon—ready to go off the moment you stop performing.

Beauty and Blame

There’s something sick about the way society demands beauty from women, then punishes us for having it.

We’re told to be attractive, to be desirable, to “keep up our appearance.” But the moment that beauty becomes inconvenient—when it causes jealousy, obsession, or violence—it’s suddenly our fault. We get blamed for the way people treat us. As if we asked for it. As if beauty is a contract we signed that forfeits our right to feel safe.

It’s a setup.

They tell you to be hot, then accuse you of leading people on.

They tell you to look confident, then say you were “asking for attention.”

They compliment your body, then claim you were “trying to seduce someone” when you get assaulted.

This is the paradox women live in every day:

Be beautiful—but not too beautiful.

Be sexy—but not for yourself.

Be desirable—but don’t you dare acknowledge that you are.

I’ve had moments where I felt ashamed just for existing. For being looked at. For being stared at too long by the wrong people, or for hearing my name in a whisper that didn’t sound safe.

And what makes it worse? The assumption that I wanted it. That because I’m confident, or post pictures, or happen to be considered attractive, I somehow agreed to the harassment that followed.

Let me make this clear:

Being beautiful doesn’t mean I consented.

Being admired doesn’t mean I’m available.

And being desirable doesn’t mean I deserve the danger that comes with it.

I am not responsible for how the world reacts to my face, my body, or my presence.

And I will never apologize for being beautiful—but I’m done being punished for it too.

You Deserve Safety, Not Just Compliments

There’s this exhausting expectation that when a man compliments you—especially about your body—you should smile, say thank you, and feel flattered. But let’s be real: not every compliment is welcome. And not every comment is a compliment.

Telling me I have “nice breasts” is not a compliment.

It’s a boundary test.

It’s a display of control.

It’s a reminder that some people think my body exists for their commentary.

And no, I don’t have to thank you for it.

I don’t owe you a laugh, a smile, a “you too.” I don’t have to soften your discomfort when I say:

“That makes me uncomfortable.”

That should be enough.

No pleading. No justification. Just respect.

Because the bare minimum—the absolute baseline—should be that people leave you alone when you ask them to. Compliments don’t make up for unsafe behavior. Pretty words don’t excuse boundary violations. And if your attention comes with pressure, entitlement, or attitude when I don’t respond how you want—it was never respect in the first place.

What I want isn’t praise. It’s peace.

What I need isn’t flattery. It’s safety.

You can think I’m beautiful and still treat me like a person.

You can admire me from afar and still honor my space.

But if you can’t do that—your “compliment” means nothing.

Because I’m not here to be consumed. I’m here to live.

And I deserve to do that without fear.