I was late to class the other day. Holding a makeup brush in one hand and blush in the other, I looked like I was going to a formal event. But I wasn’t– unless you count  9 am biology as something to dress up for. Since elementary school, I have had acne and skin problems. The adults around me told me that I was an early bloomer and it was all just hormones kicking in. At the time, I didn’t understand anything about the epidermis or oil glands in the skin and I only knew something was wrong because these red bumps on my face were not on my peers. Yet, I had bigger things to worry about at the time— which shoes to wear to make me faster for kickball or whether I was in a chocolate or plain milk mood for lunch. But very soon, I started to realize that my appearance was something that people around me took note of too. 

In middle school, I was sitting in class when one of my classmates tapped me on the shoulder and asked if my skin hurt. This confused me at the time because my skin didn’t physically hurt when I touched it. A pink hue creeped onto my cheeks as I laughed awkwardly, brushing the question off with a casual, “what are you talking about?”. As I let the question linger in my mind, a thought crept into my mind– other people perceived something was wrong with my appearance too. Why else would she have asked why my skin hurt? When your body hurts, it means that something is wrong so the only reason why she would ask me if it hurt was because there was something wrong with me she perceived. Since then, I became more insecure about how I looked. I dreaded giving presentations to a class or giving speeches because that meant that all eyes would be on me and I didn’t want to draw that attention. But, I didn’t have to worry about these insecurities for long as the world got shut down, turning two weeks off for spring break into almost 2 years of online school.

 During this time, I started experimenting with makeup. Rummaging through my mom’s bathroom drawers, I found dusty compacts, smudged lipsticks, and half used foundations. I sat cross-legged on the bathroom floor, blending eyeshadow with my fingers and practicing winged liner.  No one was watching me and that was liberating.  At first, my makeup skills were all over the place– some days I channeled my inner Victorian ghost from using foundations that were shades too light and other days I could’ve been mistaken for an Oompa Loompa from how much bronzer I used. Mascara smudges under my eyes made me look like I didn’t sleep the night before and I often wore lip gloss colors that clashed completely with my skin tone. Even so, I was able to look at myself in the mirror without focusing on the red blotches present across my forehead. Though makeup could never cover the texture of my skin, it gave me control over how I presented myself to the world and I was tired of feeling judged over things I could not control. 

Years of my bathroom counter being cluttered with different skin cleansers, washes, and exfoliators led me to decide that I wanted to go on Accutane in high school. Often prescribed as a last resort, this drug dries up all your oil glands, halting the production of sebum which is necessary for breakouts. However, Accutane’s miracle results came with serious potential consequences that could make anyone question if they were taking medication or signing up for radiation therapy. Even with these risks, I thought that having clear skin by the end of my trial would feel so rewarding and solve my insecurities. And after 7 months of taking the medication, my skin did clear up. My insecurities, though, did not go away with my acne. I found myself dabbing concealer under my eyes and on my forehead when a friend said, “You don’t need that anymore– your skin is so clear.” I thanked her but continued applying. I was grateful that Accutane cleared up the physical blemishes on my skin, but my skin journey still left many scars– emotionally and physically. Even with clearer skin, every time my fingers brush across the faint scars on my face, I am reminded of birthday wishes that were spent on asking for the blemishes to go away and times I went to the bathroom trying my best to not look at the mirror.  

At the end of the day, my skin journey is a big part of who I am and why in the future, I want to pursue dermatology or plastic surgery. Going through issues with my skin has made me more empathetic to other people’s struggles and insecurities. I know what it feels like to dread bright lighting, steer clear of anything that has reflections, and avoid making eye contact with others. I remember one time, a friend offhandedly complained, “Ugh, my day is ruined….I woke up with this pimple on my forehead.” They laughed it off, but I felt a pit forming in my stomach. I thought back to the mornings when I’d spend half an hour trying to cover the bumps or chose staying at home over going out and hanging with friends to avoid being seen. 

I am aware that in the grand scheme of things, bad skin is one of the most privileged problems to have. Yet, that doesn’t take away from the impact it has had on my life and self image. Ironically, my makeup, a coping mechanism for one of my greatest insecurities, is now one of the things that people compliment me the most on. Little by little, I am learning to rewire the way I see myself, to be comfortable in my own skin, and to be kinder to myself. But hey, learning to draw a sharper winged liner wouldn’t hurt either.