because I know not everyone
will understand this feeling.
But I think you deserve an explanation.
In my early twenties,
my skin broke apart before my eyes.
Acene bloomed endlessly across my face,
deep scars settling into places
I thought would never heal.
I spent thousands
on skincare, supplements, hope -
trying to fix something
that made me afraid of mirrors.
People used to ask me,
"Where do you get that confidence?"
To speak so freely,
to stand before crowds,
to become visible without fear.,
But what I truly heard was this:
"How can someone who looks like you
stand so boldly without shame?"
And perhaps they were right.
No one asks beautiful women
where they get their confidence from.
Beauty is often mistaken
as confidence itself.
So when people looked at me with surprise,
I understood what they meant.
I did not look like someone
who should have confidence in her bones.
And the truth is
I didn't.
I hid my shame behind composure.
I smiled like I had accepted myself
long before I actually did
No one knew how deeply
I mourned my own reflection.
Until slowly,
I learned gentleness towards myself,
I learned that healing
is not always immediate,
but it is possible.
My skin began to recover.
The scars softened.
My face grew brighter, healthier.
And people began asking me
to share my breakout journey.
At first, I hesitated.
But eventually, I did.
Because if my story
could help someone survive theirs,
then perhaps the pain
had not been meaningless after all.
And for a while,
it felt beautiful
to turn suffering into comfort
for someone else.
Then one day
a man asked for my before-and-after photos.
He said he wanted to recommend my skincare brand to his customers.
I trusted him, so I gave them willingly.
Months later,
I discovered my face
had traveled far beyond my permission.
Passed from group to group,
shown in classes,
shared among strangers,
who knew nothing about the girl
inside those photograph.
And suddenly,
what once felt empowering
began to feel violating.
Yes, I wanted to help.
But I did not want my vulnerability
to become public property.
There is a strange loneliness
in seeing your insecurities
circulate in rooms
you have never entered.
Since then,
every request for my photos
has felt heavier than before.
Because people only see testimony.
They do not see the trembling hands
that once took those photo in secret,
or the courage it took
to let the world witness them.
Not everyone will understand this feeling.
But those who have carried shame
in their own skin
probably will.



