Danicas

For three years, I was the friend who stood in the back.
The sister who cropped herself out of family photos.
The girl who wore bangs even in summer because I couldn't bear to show my forehead.
It wasn't just acne. It was shame.
I remember my 18th birthday. My mom begged me to take a picture. Just one. With the cake. With the candles.
I refused.
I told her I looked tired. I told her the lighting was bad.
But the truth was, I hated myself.
I spent hundreds on creams that burned. I tried diets that made me miserable. I watched influencers with perfect skin tell me to "just drink water" while I cried in the bathroom mirror.
One night, I found an old photo album. Me at age 10. Before the breakouts. I was smiling. Really smiling. Eyes crinkled, no hiding.
I didn't recognize that girl.
She didn't care about her pores. She cared about being happy.
That night, I didn't apply my medicated cream. I washed my face. I looked in the mirror.
And I said something I hadn't said in years.
Commet YES if you want to read more: