My mom would see me staring aimlessly at the mirror, concealer brush in hand, and say, “You look beautiful,” but I didn’t believe her.

I never did.

It wasn’t the pain that made me cry, or cover up my mirrors, or keep my camera off when calling my best friend. It was the feeling of my self-esteem being constantly diminished by societal expectations I could never meet, that drove me to bury myself deeper and deeper into my own self loathing.

When someone so young struggles with acne, they begin to question their own self worth, accounting it to the crushing societal expectation to be pretty conveyed in the media.

According to the American Academy of Dermatology, acne is one of the most common skin conditions, affecting over 85% of people aged 12-24. However it is often conveyed as some sort of disease that needs to be shunned, rather than a condition that needs to be normalized.

Coming from someone who has been on acne medication since I was 10 years old, the mental health aspect of it only comes into play when others make it a bigger deal than it is.

Freshman year was one of the hardest times in my life. Aside from dealing with patronizing comments from other teenagers who thought that their clear skin made them better than me, my own face turned against me, plaguing me with painful acne that spread from my jaw to my hairline.

I pretend it was fine. I plastered on a smile despite the dull aching that would inevitably engulf my face. But every, “Why don’t you wear more makeup,” or “If I were you I would wear my hair down to cover my face,” made me feel more broken and worthless than I believed I looked.

Although people tried to help me by recommending some ninety dollar face cream, their so-called “helpful” skin care recommendations did nothing but make me feel helpless.

I stopped taking photos. What’s the point in documenting something so ugly?

My self confidence plummeted, and the layers of makeup grew thicker — and thicker — and thicker, until the person I saw in the mirror looked desperate and foreign.

I began medication again after taking a two year hiatus from my demanding skincare routine, necessary just to keep my skin from peeling off. The side effects hit me hard, leaving my face red, splotchy and dry. But my skin never cleared.

My doctors said it would take time and patience that I didn’t have. They told me it would get worse before it got better. But how was I supposed to hold onto the empty promise that everything would be fine, while watching new spots appear daily.

Night after night I would spend at least an hour in my bathroom. The lights were on, but I wanted to turn them off. I would claw at my face until I would bleed, then hate myself more for it later.

My mom told me it would get better, my doctors told me it was healing, my friends told me I was pretty, and people I didn’t even know would give me random recommendations. But every comment meant that someone noticed — and every time someone noticed meant that the knife in my chest pushed deeper.

But it did get better.

Although it hasn’t fully gone away, the scars still remain.

But it’s better, and I felt better too.

My passion for makeup and fashion returned. I started rollerskating again without the fear of my own sweat making me break out. I stopped hiding in hoodies with my hair down, and started wearing skirts again. I was released from the shackles of my own body.

But not everyone gets better, and not all teens heal. Even if the wounds fade, the scars never do. The obsessiveness with one’s skin, worried that the worst will come again, consumes myself and others unanimously struggling to move forward.

The fight for confidence is an uphill battle that we are being forced to endure, but we learn to live to the fullest extent despite it.

It is imperative to recognize that the media is a representation of what society sees as perfect, not the standard we have to hold ourselves too. Teens are glorified for having clear, blemish free skin, while the vast majority, like myself, are put down for being completely normal.

The media has driven us to hate ourselves, and no one is doing anything about it, except furthering the same belief that ties our worth to our skin.

Unless we rid ourselves of the idea that one’s beauty is directly correlated to their value in society, we will never be able to fully escape the shackles that bind us to our insecurities.