This is my skin. It always has been, and as far as I can tell, it always will be. I have acne scars from 7th grade and I have acne scars from last week. I took the scars to live in Arizona for awhile. I took them to national parks and I took them on Tinder dates. I’ve taken them to countless dermatology appointments. Anywhere I go, they go, too. I can tell when eyes don’t meet mine because they’re examining the scars. I have a birthmark that looks like a hickey that strangers and employers have felt the need to comment on, sneer at, and pull me aside to inquire about. My scars, and more annoyingly, my BIRTHMARK have been edited off of my body without my permission in photos. But this is still my skin. All the pills and creams and potions and makeup and photoshop and unsolicited advice haven’t changed the fact that this is my skin. At twenty-seven I’ve decided to stop hating it so much. Hating it never made it better. You know how fucking freeing it is to decide something is beautiful when you spent a lifetime feeling the opposite? It’s not easy to embrace, or even to post this, but it is freeing.