Growing up, there was something endlessly comforting about curling up on the couch with a bowl of cereal, tuning in to the latest episode of Scooby-Doo. It wasn’t just the goofy mysteries or the delightfully predictable unmasking of the bad guy—it was the feeling of belonging, of being part of a group where everyone had a place, even if you were a little quirky or awkward. As a kid, I often related to Velma. She wasn’t the glamorous Daphne or the adventurous Fred; she was the brainy one, the girl with the glasses, always overlooked but always crucial to solving the mystery. There was something about Velma’s steadfastness and quiet confidence that resonated with me, especially as I navigated my own insecurities and self-doubt.
But it wasn’t just Velma. I saw a bit of myself in Shaggy too—Shaggy, with his insatiable hunger and perpetual fear, who somehow still managed to be there for his friends when it mattered most. He wasn’t the bravest, and he certainly wasn’t the most put-together, but Shaggy had a heart as big as Scooby’s appetite. I remember watching him run from ghosts, only to turn back when his friends were in trouble. There was something profoundly comforting about knowing that even if you were scared—or in Shaggy’s case, terrified—you could still find the courage to do the right thing.
As I grew older, the lessons from Scooby-Doo—about teamwork, courage, and, yes, self-acceptance—stuck with me, though they took on different meanings. In my teenage years, those insecurities I had once shared with Velma started to shift. Suddenly, it wasn’t just about being the smart kid; it was about how I looked, how I fit into the impossible standards of beauty that seemed to be everywhere I turned. I became more conscious of my body, comparing myself to others and feeling like I didn’t measure up. It wasn’t just that I didn’t have Daphne’s flowing red hair or her perfect figure; it was the realization that, somewhere along the way, I had internalized the idea that my worth was somehow tied to how I looked, rather than who I was.
The thing is, in Scooby-Doo, it never mattered what anyone looked like. Daphne’s beauty wasn’t what made her valuable to the team, nor was Velma’s braininess something that made her less important because she wasn’t conventionally pretty. And she wasn’t cool because she changed to fit in; she was cool because she was unapologetically herself, glasses and all. (Though she did seem to lose them a lot.) Each character had their quirks and strengths, and together, they formed a team that could take on any ghost, ghoul, or goblin. And Shaggy, with all his fears, wasn’t just comic relief; he was a reminder that you didn’t need to be fearless to be brave. But outside of that Saturday morning cartoon world, life seemed far more complicated, and those comforting messages of self-acceptance got buried under layers of self-criticism.
It wasn’t until much later, as an adult, that I began to truly appreciate the simplicity of the lessons Scooby-Doo had taught me. Self-acceptance isn’t about conforming to someone else’s idea of what you should be. It’s about embracing your quirks, your strengths, and yes, even your insecurities. Velma wasn’t cool because she changed to fit in; she was cool because she was unapologetically herself, glasses and all. And Shaggy wasn’t a hero because he wasn’t afraid—he was a hero because he was always willing to face those fears when his friends needed him.
As I’ve journeyed through the ups and downs of body image, I’ve come to realize that self-acceptance is an ongoing process. It’s easy to look in the mirror and see only the things you wish were different—those extra pounds, the way your jeans fit, or don’t fit, around your hips. But Scooby-Doo taught me something important: that it’s okay to be a little awkward, a little different, and that those differences don’t make you any less valuable. In fact, they’re what make you unique.
So now, when I feel the pressure to conform, to chase after some elusive ideal of beauty, I think back to those days spent with the Mystery Inc. gang. I remind myself that self-acceptance isn’t about changing who you are to fit someone else’s mold. It’s about finding the courage to embrace who you are, quirks and all. If there’s one thing Scooby-Doo taught me, it’s that there’s always a mystery to solve, a challenge to face—and that you’re stronger, more capable, and more valuable than you might think, just as you are.
And when I’m feeling scared or unsure, I think of Shaggy, finding the courage to stand tall when it counted, even if his knees were shaking the whole time. Here’s to Velma, Shaggy, and the whole gang—thanks for teaching me that being true to yourself is the greatest mystery of all.