Introduction
I used to believe that my skin was the problem. Every spot felt like a crisis, every scar a small failure, and every new product was a promise I thought I had to believe in. I’d stand under the bright lights of Boots, scanning rows and rows of bottles like lottery tickets, hoping one might finally make me feel worthy of being seen. But what I didn’t realise then, at 14, at 16, and even now at 21, was that my skin wasn’t broken. The system was.
We live in a culture where clear skin isn’t just a beauty ideal; it’s a kind of moral achievement. Smooth, glowing skin is presented as proof of health, discipline, and even self-worth. Acne, meanwhile, is something to be fixed, hidden, or monetised. The skincare industry doesn’t just sell solutions, it sells insecurity, one branded drop of “hope” at a time.
The Cult of “Good Skin”
Clear skin has become a shorthand for control. It tells the world that you’re clean, responsible, and put-together. And acne? It’s still read as a moral flaw, lazy hygiene, poor diet, and mismanagement of stress.
We know this instinctively. Compliments like “your skin looks amazing” are about more than appearance; they’re about perceived success. By default, apps and filters blur pores, turning “real” skin into something that looks strangely artificial.
The “clean girl” aesthetic, popularised on TikTok, thrives on this illusion: effortless, poreless, minimalistic, but still expensive. It’s the same old beauty myth, now washed in beige packaging and called “self-care.” In a world preoccupied with curation, my skin failed to cooperate. It served as a reminder to others that I was real.
The Economics of Insecurity
The global skincare industry is worth over £170 billion, and it’s still growing. But the business model depends on one thing: that we never feel content. Always on the hunt for better products, better skincare. It’s this insatiable need to consume the “newest” products that fuel the industry.
Acne treatment isn’t about healing; it’s about maintenance. Every product is framed with urgency: Fix it now. Glow in 7 days. Don’t settle. Even the word “routine” implies work, so there’s always something to improve. I’ve spent years and hundreds of pounds chasing those promises. Toners, acids, retinols, oils. I wanted control; instead, I got sensitivity and shame, my skin got worse, and so did my mental health.
Ironically, my skin only began to calm down when I simplified everything. Now I use Simple, a drugstore cleanser, one spot treatment, and a basic moisturiser. No actives, no hype. Just skin, finally left alone, and my confidence is only just getting better.
The Lie of Control
The biggest myth skincare sells is that perfection is a matter of effort. If you just try hard you can achieve flawlessness. But dermatologists and geneticists have long confirmed what influencers don’t say: acne is complex. It’s hormonal, environmental, and often hereditary. You can’t manifest your pores away.
Still, the illusion of control keeps us spending. It’s easier to blame ourselves for not trying hard enough than to accept that bodies don’t always obey branding. And so the cycle continues:
Insecurity → purchase → temporary hope → disappointment → repeat.
Skincare becomes less about care and more about commerce. It’s not about skin, it’s about selling the idea that you can master it.
The Turning Point
There wasn’t a dramatic moment of awakening. It was gradual, a slow peeling away of marketing language until I could see my reflection without critique. Maybe it was burnout, or maybe it was rebellion.
One day I realised, I needed to stop buying a new product out of hope, I needed to stop apologising and being ashamed for being human. I stopped treating my skin as a project. I let it exist. I still get breakouts, but they no longer feel like moral failures. They’re just part of me.
Conclusion
I still care for my skin, but not to fix it, to care for it. The goal isn’t perfection anymore; it’s peace.
Acceptance doesn’t mean loving every blemish or scar. It means recognising that beauty doesn’t begin where the marketing ends. That our faces aren’t billboards for effort or discipline, they’re living, changing, human.