For many years of my life, I used to measure whether a day would be good or bad before I even left the house. Not by the weather. Not by an upcoming exam. Not even by how much sleep I got. By my skin.
If I woke up and saw a breakout on my face, I could feel my entire mood shift before my feet even touched the floor. It wasn’t even about how noticeable the whiteheads or pores actually looked — it was about what I thought it meant for my day. For years, I built my mornings around controlling something that was never fully controllable, even with dozens of creams, medications, and structured skin care regimens (even though, as many women know all too well, hormonal acne doesn’t follow the rules).
In the thick of my acne flare-ups, I didn’t just check one mirror while getting ready. I checked all of them. I examined my face in the harsh bathroom lighting mirror that showed everything too clearly, the softer bedroom mirror that made me think maybe it wasn’t that bad, the final front mirror I passed on my way out the door, and the car visor mirror before I went anywhere. Each one gave me a slightly different version of myself, and I would obsess over which version I thought other people were actually seeing.Â
I was learning how to avoid being fully seen.
As early as middle school, I started keeping a concealer stick in my bag as an essential, tucked in with my pencils and pens. I’d sneak into the bathroom between classes just to check if anything had “come through.” It became such a routine that I didn’t really question it — I just assumed everyone else was paying as much attention to my skin as I was.Â
During the pandemic, which hit during my freshman year of high school, I got used to disappearing behind screens. On Zoom, I learned exactly which lighting made my skin look the most clear and even. I’d precisely adjust my laptop angle before class started and stay slightly off-camera if I could. When I made TikToks (as was the life of a 2020s teen), I’d film from a distance or in dimmer lighting so my skin wasn’t the focus.Â
I thought I was just being aware of how I looked on camera. But really, I was learning how to avoid being fully seen.
When school went back in person and masks came off, it was more of the same. In photos, I’d subtly turn my face so my “better side” was visible. In conversations, I’d sit or stand in ways that kept certain angles hidden without anyone noticing. It wasn’t conscious by that point; it was fully automatic.Â
My high school senior photos are one of the clearest memories I have of all of this. I don’t really remember the posing or the outfits or even feeling excited in the way I thought I would. What I remember is a comment an editor made about my breakout that stuck with me in a way I didn’t know how to shake. I remember getting in the car afterward and crying, not because anything was objectively wrong with the photos, but because I felt like I couldn’t separate the memory from how I thought I looked in it. Now that I’m an adult, I can see that the comment from the editor wasn’t appropriate or necessary, but at the time it felt like a final confirmation that everyone else noticed my acne as much as I did.Â
it’s heartbreaking how much power I gave to something so small.
Looking back, it’s heartbreaking how much power I gave to something so small. I wasn’t just thinking about my acne — I was thinking about lighting, angles, mirrors, photos, and, ultimately, how to manage every version of myself that might be seen by someone else. I was so focused on controlling other people’s perception of me that I wasn’t really present in a lot of the moments I was trying so hard to protect.Â
College didn’t fix that overnight — but it did start to shift things. At UCLA, I met so many amazing people, including those who were more open about their skin and insecurities in a way that felt normal and not hidden. People showed up bare-faced to class, talked casually about breakouts, and posted unfiltered photos without turning it into a big statement. It slowly challenged the idea I had built up in my head that my skin needed to be “controlled” in order for me to be accepted.
As I now enter my senior year of college, my skin is doing a lot better. But even with that, I still have days when I notice a breakout and feel that old instinct kick in. The difference is that I recognize it faster now. I notice when I’m spiraling into mirrors or angles or overthinking how I’m being seen, and I try to interrupt it instead of following it. The cycle hasn’t disappeared completely, but I’ve started putting up a small mental stop sign when I catch myself slipping back into my old, toxic habits.
What I’ve really learned is that I wasn’t just trying to have better skin. I was trying to manage how I was being seen. And even now, I still have moments where I have to pause and remind myself that I don’t need to look “perfect” to enter a room.Â
It’s funny. I used to think clear skin would give me confidence. Now I think confidence is what finally allowed me to stop chasing perfect skin.