Let’s rewind to puberty—a time when hormones throw ragers in your body like it’s Coachella, and your skin becomes the unfortunate VIP section. Enter: Acne. Not just any acne. The kind that arrives uninvited, sets up camp on your face, and refuses to leave, like a bad houseguest who eats all your pizza rolls.

I tried everything. Creams that smelled like a chemistry lab’s dumpster fire. DIY face masks involving oatmeal (spoiler: I looked like a soggy cereal box). I even cut bangs, because obviously curtain-style fringe would hide my forehead’s volcanic activity. Instead, my new ‘do became a greasy crime scene, trapping oil like a fryer basket. Thanks, bangs. You’re fired.

At 14, birth control pills swooped in like a pharmaceutical fairy godmother. My skin calmed down… sort of. But instead of celebrating, I became a microscopic detective. Armed with a magnifying mirror (the kind that should come with a trigger warning), I hunted for “flaws” like my life depended on it. A dark circle? Criminal. A speck of pigmentation? Straight to jail. My inner critic morphed into Judge Judy, slamming the gavel: “Guilty of existing.”

Europe, TikTok & the great skin meltdown

Cut to 27-year-old me, moving to Europe—land of fromage, fika, and water so hard it could bench-press a toddler. My skin, however, did not appreciate the cultural upgrade. Within weeks, it staged a rebellion. Acne erupted like confetti at a pity party. Not just pimples, mind you. These were angry red mountains, the kind that deserved their own Instagram hashtag: #SkinApocalypse2023.

Panic set in. I became TikTok’s lab rat, slathering on serums that promised “glass skin in 3 days!” (Spoiler: My face now resembled a tomato that lost a fight with a cheese grater.) I canceled plans, wore hats big enough to hide a small pet, and convinced myself strangers were whispering, “Does she bathe in fryer oil?”

Therapy, time travel, & that one dang pimple

Then came therapy—a.k.a. the plot twist where I realized my skin wasn’t the villain. Between sips of chamomile tea and my therapist’s “Hmm, tell me more…” nods, it hit me: I’d hated my skin forever. Not just now, but always.

Cue the time travel montage. I scrolled through old photos, bracing for cringe… only to gasp. There it was: my “hideous” teenage skin. And by hideous, I mean one pimple. One. A tiny dot I’d weaponized into a war. My past self had been gaslit by glossy magazine spreads and Instagram filters. And here I was, a grown adult, still falling for the same scam.

The irony? My current acne-riddled skin was the exact nightmare my teenage self feared. Yet here I was, alive. Breathing. Not, in fact, disintegrating into a pile of shame.

Skin as snitch (but in a good way)

Lightbulb moment: My acne wasn’t sabotaging me. It was my skin screaming, “Hey bestie, We're in crisis mode!” Turns out, I’d been treating my body like a rented moped—crash dieting, chugging espresso like it was oxygen, and using skincare products with more syllables than my college thesis.

My skin? Just doing its job. A loyal guard dog barking, “Hydrate! Sleep! Maybe don’t stress-eat an entire wheel of Brie?!” And how did I repay her? By yelling, “Bad dog!” and slathering on another acid toner.

Wrinkles, the ultimate plot twist

Here’s the kicker: Acne fades. But wrinkles? They’re coming. And I’ve decided to greet them like old friends. Those laugh lines? Proof I cackled at terrible dad jokes. Crow’s feet? Souvenirs from squinting at sunsets. I refuse to waste today hating what tomorrow will nostalgia-tize.

Imagine this: You’re 70, flipping through photos. Do you want to sigh, “Ugh, I had such great skin back then!” or chuckle, “Wow, I thought that one pimple was the end times.”

A love letter to my closest companion

Skin isn’t a filter. It’s a diary. A map. A chaotic collage of late nights, bad decisions, and joy-soaked moments. She’s survived breakouts, and breakups, and that time I tried “tanning” with a self-tanner that turned me Oompa-Loompa orange.

So here’s my manifesto:

  1. Talk to your skin. She’s chatty. Breakout? “Hydrate, maybe?” Dry patch? “Lay off the 12-step routine, pls.”

  2. Ditch the magnifying mirror. Unless you’re into horror movies starring your pores.

  3. Embrace plot twists. Acne, wrinkles, sunspots—they’re just your skin’s way of saying, “Hey, we’re still here. Still trying.”

The myth of “perfect skin” (and why it’s a lie)

Let’s unpack the elephant in the room: “Perfect skin” is a myth invented by people who sell $200 serums and Instagram filters. Think about it—when was the last time you saw a pore on a magazine cover? Or a celebrity candid without a team of editors airbrushing their elbows?

We’ve been sold a fairy tale where the skin is a porcelain doll—static, flawless, and utterly lifeless. But real skin? It’s a living, breathing ecosystem. It sweats, sheds, and throws tantrums when you eat too much sugar. It’s messy. It’s human. And that’s what makes it beautiful.

Skinfluencers, scams, & the art of unsubscribing

Let’s talk about the skincare industrial complex. TikTok “skinfluencers” hawking $100 creams that promise to “reverse aging” (spoiler: they won’t). Ads shouting, “Erase wrinkles in 7 days!” (Translation: “Buy this and feel bad when it doesn’t work!”).

Here’s the truth: No cream can fix self-hatred. No serum can silence your inner critic. The real glow-up? Looking in the mirror and saying, “Hey, you’re doing your best. Let’s get tacos.”

The skin we’re in (a collective hug)

Skin is a universal language. That coworker with “perfect” skin? She probably panics over a single blackhead. Your grandma’s wrinkles? She earned every one. We’re all just out here, trying to navigate a world that profits off our insecurities.

So let’s rebel. Let’s normalize acne patches as fashion accessories. Let’s post makeup-free selfies captioned “Felt cute, might delete later (but probably not).” Let’s laugh at the absurdity of it all—because if we don’t, we’ll cry. And crying gives you puffy eyes.