The Things We Do
Dealing with chronic eczema isn't really something you deal with. I think that's what I've come to realize as I've gotten older. I used to think that one day it would magically disappear. But if anything, it's only become more prevalent as life has gone on. It's not something you fix; it's something you live with.
Growing up, I was always told I was mature beyond my years. But in my eyes, there was a clear reason for that: severe, chronic eczema and allergies have a way of making you grow up fast. Always being intensely aware of my surroundings, the food I was given, what people had eaten around me, and then the feeling of being left out because I couldn’t eat a dessert or do the things my friends were doing, because I had to be aware. I spent my childhood going to doctors' appointments every Tuesday and Thursday, to the point where the staff became our good friends. I had a spot in the waiting area. I knew the route there, I knew the routine, I knew exactly what the rest of my day would look like once we walked through those doors. And as a girl, living with visible skin problems carries its own quiet anxiety. It shaped what I could and couldn't do, like staying out of the sun, skipping tank tops and shorts, not out of embarrassment, but because my skin would just burn.
I don't think about it often, because I've kept it tucked in a corner of my mind, the part that insists my childhood was completely normal. But the older I get, the more I recognize just how much it touched every life around me. Not just mine, but my parents', my friends', my family's. To this day, relatives I haven't seen in years will ask, "How's your eczema?", because it was that present, that defining, and that known.
In some ways, it’s made me who I am. More self-aware. More emotional. More conscious, earlier. More attuned to other people's worries and insecurities. More empathetic. I think that’s the quiet gift of it all!
It still follows me today. The dermatology appointments. The quiet dread that creeps in as summer approaches, the wanting warm weather while fearing it. Always bringing a purse with every essential I could need in case something happens - the anxiety. Loving the ocean, but feeling the sting on my skin. Wanting the sun, but knowing the rashes and sun spots that come with it. Showering with a burn, and a long routine after. The guilt of having to say no after the millionth “Can you eat this?”, after they’ve spent time cooking for me, or having to ask and hunt down whoever made the food to make sure I can eat it. I used to feel bad when people would say I’m missing out, or when they would get stressed because they couldn't accommodate me…But I’ve always felt a deep sense of gratefulness that I knew who I was from a very young age. It's always a push-and-pull.
The list of treatments my parents tried on my behalf is almost absurd in hindsight: chlorine baths, salt baths, Ayurvedic pills, clay baths, light box treatments, mouth drops, shots, creams, ointments, and topicals. I learned to spell Triamcinolone at the age of seven, and if that doesn't tell you everything, I don't know what will. But the one constant through it all was Aquaphor. After every treatment, my parents would lather me in it to help calm and protect my skin. And to this day, I will not go anywhere without it. I still lather so much that it's become a running joke. How much I use, how shiny I look fresh out of the shower. Some things stick, I guess!
The light box was a different kind of treatment entirely. It wasn't something doctors knew would work at the time, and it wasn't small in what it asked of us, but my skin was genuinely that bad, and it was a start. I still remember standing inside it, with my little UV goggles, waiting for the PA to come in and set the dial for the day. It felt like an adventure in the way that only a child could make it feel like one. I can still recall, vividly, what the inside of that box felt like… the warmth was the main thing. Maybe that's why I crave heat even now. Maybe warmth became something my body associated with relief. Because the adventure always ended the same way: getting home and peeling off every piece of clothing because my skin was on fire. The things we do.
It wasn't all bad, though. I had parents who never stopped searching for answers, and a brother going through it right alongside me. I had doctors who felt like family, a PA who knew my everyday life, and a physician who never stopped thinking of new possibilities. The office genuinely felt like a second home, and honestly, that's a strange, tender thing to be able to say!
I’m forever grateful for the people in my life who never made it seem like it was a big deal, and who always thought of ways to make me feel extra loved and extra special. My aunts, my parents, and my siblings are a few, but my aunt Sheeba is the first person who comes to mind.
Most people don't know this about me. It's not something I lead with. But it has quietly shaped every single part of who I am, my empathy, my resilience, my self-awareness, and my relationship with myself. I think that’s why I lean towards doing difficult and uncomfortable things, like pageantry, modeling, and moving across the country. Because I’ve always been doing hard things. And at the end of the day? I know who I am, I stand pretty firm in that, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
What’s the Catch?
Knowing that no matter what you’re handed, it’s always happening for you and not to you
