With my cheek pressed against the warm pavement, I stayed as still as possible. I worried that if I breathed too heavily, I would disrupt the progress of a masterpiece.
My brother carefully tiptoed around my body with chalk in his hand, leaving behind a powdery outline of each of our siblings. As he crossed past my head, I turned my face up towards the sun, eyes closed to keep out any light.
For just a moment, I wasn’t thinking about myself, about the fact that no one could stand to stare at my face for too long.
But my peace was shortly interrupted as I felt an itch along my forehead. By reflex, I lifted my hand to soothe it, only to find a dozen ants crawling along my face, leaving bites wherever they stepped. Frantically, I shook my head, brushed aggressively at my face and hair, anything to get rid of them.
Yet their damage was already done. I ran my hands along my face assessing the damage. The ants had left bumps and craters along every centimeter. They ruined my face.
At least, that’s what I told my fifth grade class so they wouldn’t question all of the imperfections in my skin.
***
I knew none of them would actually believe my story. The farce wasn’t for them — it was for me. A flimsy hope that the acne marking my face would be as fleeting as a bug bite.
But it wasn’t.
It lingered, clinging to me as a faithful companion I couldn’t wait to ditch. Even after my skin began to smooth, the scars remained, reminders of a silent battle. They spanned deeper than just the surface, controlling the way I stood with my shoulders turned inwards, the way I avoided mirrors unless I was armed with concealer.
Every outing of mine would be a carefully orchestrated performance, every action rehearsed and guarded.
On an overnight school trip, I refused to let my hotel roommates see me for what I was — a fraud. After the nightly shower, I stared at my reflection in the fluorescent hotel bathroom lights, watching water dripping down my face, passing through every single crater I fought so hard to hide. The mirror showed no mercy, highlighting every imperfection I was convinced made me unlovable.
I reached for my makeup bag, the zipper cutting through the silence of the room. Concealer rubbed against my skin in familiar motions, slowly erasing the tiny scars. Inch by inch, I had reassembled my mask, smothering the truth under fake pigment.
By morning, I was always the first one awake. I crept out of bed, careful not to wake the others as I removed the stained pillowcase beneath my head and hid it in the dark of the closet. I returned to the bathroom and went through the familiar motions to keep up my act, and I stepped out looking perfectly normal.
But perfection was never my truth.
Years later, I began to realize the weight of the mask I trudged around with for so long. The constant fear of being seen for who I was permanently pulled my chin down. Slowly, I began daring myself to step outside without any camouflage, to step in front of the mirror without backing away.
The scars on my face didn’t define me; they told a story of growth, resilience, and learning to love myself — flaws and all. While some days are still hard, I’ve come to understand that we don’t need more people with perfect faces, we just need more who are brave enough to show their real ones.
