“I can’t! I can’t leave the house without makeup!” That was the last lie I would ever tell myself.
I was born with a port-wine stain birthmark, stretching across both sides of my face—my chin and bottom lip included. As a child and teenager, I never fully understood why I had it or how it happened. Over time, I learned that port-wine stains occur when chemical signals in tiny blood vessels fail to ‘turn off,’ causing those vessels to enlarge and the extra blood to redden the skin. Even knowing this, it didn’t change how I felt. From the age of five, I already felt different. I would stare at the red mark on my face, wishing it could disappear. I’d place my small hand over it, imagining the face beneath—one that looked like everyone else, like my mother, sister, friends, or the women I saw on television. But as soon as I removed my hand, tears welled up. I knew I would never look like them.
When I was nine, my mom, sister, and aunt took me to a photo studio. There were makeup artists and hair stylists there to prep us for pictures. One makeup artist asked, “Would you like me to cover your birthmark?” I froze. “You can do that?” I whispered. She smiled and nodded, explaining it would just take more product. I felt a mix of hope and disbelief. “Yes, please,” I said, barely containing my excitement.
When she finished, she handed me a mirror. I wanted to cry, hug her, and tell her she had given me something I had never felt before—beauty. But as a shy nine-year-old, all I managed was, “Thank you, it looks nice.”
After that day, I wanted to wear that makeup forever. I knew that once it came off, the insecurity would return. The first time I wore foundation to school was in eighth grade. I didn’t cover my birthmark perfectly, but I felt a new kind of confidence. People weren’t staring at my bold, red mark—they were noticing me. By high school, I perfected my makeup technique to the point where most people never realized I was concealing such a prominent part of myself. I received compliments, attention from boys, and for the first time, I felt beautiful. I became addicted to this feeling, wearing makeup constantly.
If I stayed over at a friend’s house, I’d sleep in my makeup and wake early to fix it. Sports? Forget it. Fear of smudging kept me from swimming, even causing me to fail P.E. class. I was confident only on the surface. Deep down, I knew I didn’t feel secure, but I faked it every single day.
After high school, I researched Pulsed Dye laser treatments to fade or remove my birthmark. Dr. DiCerbo explained it could take 8–12 sessions to see results. I waited until I had my son and then started treatments at 21. The first session was strange. The procedure itself didn’t hurt much, but the swelling, bruising, and scabbing afterward made me feel worse than before. My skin needed about a week to heal, but slowly, the birthmark began to fade. I did three more treatments, each time hiding at home for 7–10 days, covering my bruised face with even more makeup. I felt miserable, lying to friends and family, isolating myself.
Then came June. I had a treatment scheduled but had recently fallen in love with rock climbing. I worried about losing strength and missing outings with friends. That afternoon, I asked my husband, Steve, to grab In-N-Out. His cheerful “Let’s all go!” stunned me. Why would he think I’d leave the house bruised and swollen? I broke down. Tears streamed uncontrollably as I whispered, “I can’t! I can’t leave the house without makeup!”
Steve calmly asked, “You can’t, or you won’t?” And in that moment, it hit me—I had been holding myself back. I had been lying to myself since eighth grade, trapped by fear of judgment and insecurity. I realized I had the power to change. That was the day I decided to stop caring about what others thought and start embracing myself fully.
Inspired by incredible women on Instagram proudly displaying their port-wine stains, I pushed myself. I went to the grocery store with my bruised, healing birthmark. People stared, yes, but I was proud. I attended family events, went to the gym, watched my son’s Jiu Jitsu classes—all without makeup. Each outing felt easier, each day more freeing. I focused on building mental and physical strength, and my confidence grew from within, not from what covered my face.
This journey wasn’t easy. There were tears, panic, and moments of self-doubt. But with every “I can” I told myself, I shattered the lies I’d lived by for over a decade. I no longer let fear dictate my life. I am stronger than I imagined, beautiful in my natural state, and finally, it feels like I truly belong in my own skin. It was damn time I embraced it.
