Pretty Is Easy Surviving Is Hard
People slip into all kinds of roles in daily life: the planner, the dreamer, the overthinker, the snack-getter. Recently, though, I have been thinking about a different pair of archetypes: the toad and the swan. At first glance, it sounds like an insult disguised as zoology. One creature is earthy, lumpy, and entirely uninterested in optics. The other glides around looking like it charges admission to be perceived. One gets compared to damp moss; the other to balletic poetry.
I grew up being shown I was the swan. My mother curated that identity with almost artistic precision. When I was seven, she gave me a Swarovski swan necklace that sparkled like a tiny declaration of who I was supposed to become. During the holiday season, I would visit the New York City Ballet to see Swan Lake, where the dancers glided across the stage as if they were made of light and discipline and I absorbed the message without anyone needing to say a word. She made sure I understood that a girl should be put together. Presentation was a skill. Poise was a responsibility. Being polished was nonnegotiable. So now, in my twenties, I get my nails done with ritual consistency. I dress with intention. I care about fashion not out of vanity, but because it feels like a fluent language I have spoken since childhood. Elegance was the blueprint I was handed.
But here’s the twist: being the toad is wildly underrated. Toads have mythology on their side. In fairytales, they are the ones who transform; humble beginnings, surprising endings. Swans do not get character development. They enter elegant and leave elegant. Good for them, but predictable. The toad, however, is the creature that shocks everyone. It simply exists comfortably and confidently, often covered in mud. There is freedom in that kind of self-possession; the world can underestimate you, and you lose absolutely nothing. Meanwhile, swans look serene but are famously neurotic. One loud noise and they’re ready to file a complaint with the universe. Symbolically, the toad has grit. It’s built for weather, for change, for seasons that aren’t curated. A swan is beautiful, yes, but more delicate than its PR team would ever admit. A toad can outlast a swan in just about any scenario except a dramatic lake photo shoot. Everything it has, including its humor, resilience, and actual charm, comes from substance. Swans can dazzle from afar, but they rarely surprise you. A toad can. So if life ever casts you as the toad, don’t fight it. I grew up raised as the swan, taught to glide, taught to sparkle, taught to be put together. And I still love beauty. I still love polish. But there is something far more interesting about the creature people underestimate: the one that is unpolished, unbothered, unafraid, and entirely uninterested in performing for approval. The toad is the one with the story arc, the unexpected punchline, the personality. The toad endures; the toad adapts; the toad sometimes even poisons those who get too close, which, frankly, is a talent the swan could never pull off. And honestly? It is better to be underestimated than to be ornamental.