I try to never complain about my acne. I always think, there are other people who struggle with worse (there are), who have to go on Roaccutane as a last resort, who deal with the constant stigma that acne-prone skin means they're "dirty" when, in fact, we all know those people have probably the most impressive skin-care routines and are diligent about cleansing.

Still, my battle with acne is ongoing and has been since I was in school. It's only recently that I've been reminded just how internalised the shame of my acne-prone complexion [1] haunts me. Like a lot of people in self-isolation, I've spent the past three months dealing with an army of pimples on my face. Unlike past circumstances, I can't explain these breakouts, why they're happening, how to prevent them, and why they make me feel so horribly out of control.

Like a lot of people, puberty didn't treat me well. My cheeks, chin, and forehead were constantly speckled with inflamed bumps that I couldn't ever seem to heal. By secondary school, I was on a birth control pill that luckily curved my breakouts for years — until 2017. By that time, I'd been on hormonal birth control [2] for eight years. I'd still get monthly breakouts, but nothing I couldn't handle or would last all that long. My skin is prone to scarring, so that was likely my biggest skin concern at the time. Still, I remember wondering what it would be like to just simply go off the pill for a while — to give my body a break and reset. So, I stopped taking it for one whole year. Unfortunately, that's when a lot of acne memories unlocked for me. My skin immediately erupted in cysts, so much so that each morning I'd wake up with a new one — each one harder to heal and cover up with makeup.

At the time, I was filming a lot of videos for the company I worked for, which meant my insecurities were on full display. There's one video [3] in particular that I recently revisited and, for the first time, ever, read the comment section. The masochist I am read through all 418 comments with no idea just how harsh the words from strangers would be. As if the voice inside my head didn't make it difficult enough to deal with unexpected breakouts, the paragraphs from people I didn't even know cut deeper. No one should be ashamed of something they can't even control. No matter how many times I've told myself throughout the years that acne was OK, I was beautiful, the bumps and scars didn't matter, my internal monologue fought to tell me otherwise — and still frequently does.

I'm sure I'm not the only person who's been late to work because they've spent all morning agonising in the mirror over their acne — just staring, realising just how out of your control it feels. I'm not a skin picker, but I mentally pick and poke in my mind trying to imagine how much happier I'd be without the constant intrusion of my acne. Eventually, I went back on my prescription, and the breakouts cleared up within a few weeks (although, the scars took months to clear up). I was thankful that finally my skin-care routine could once again be cleared of the benzoyl peroxides, the salicylic acids, and the clay spot treatments that ruined my pillows.

Fast-forward three years, and suddenly we're in the midst of a global pandemic, one that's forced the majority of the world to shelter in place. new cysts [4] and old scars that are most unwelcome to let it go. I'm not passionate about meditating, but I remember when I tried to get into the practice, I listened to a guided audio that recommended for busy minds to allow thoughts to come and go like cars on a street, to imagine myself sitting on a stoop literally watching a traffic pass me by. So, I'll be trying that with each new pimple that emerges. Until I completely overcome the sense of defeat I feel when I sense a new spot surfacing, here's to the clay drying on my chin as I type.