minna gilligan, artist
I never thought much of my freckles as a child, but in year 7 some bullies said the concentrated line of pigmentation flecks on my forehead looked like a visor (surf-brand visors were cool back then, so I’m not sure why that was an insult). My freckles were the only thing I mildly disliked about my skin as a teen, and the older I grew, the less I cared about them.

In my early 20s I started developing mottled, red sores on my left cheek. I was diagnosed with rosacea, a skin condition that causes redness, heat and painful bumps on the face. After a child on public transport asked, “What’s on your face?" I went on a crusade to get rid of it. The more things I tried – dermatologist visits, ointments, daily antibiotics and even putting yoghurt on my face – the worse it seemed to get. In photographs, I turned away or hid the left side of my face with my hair.

I thought back to the bullies who made fun of my freckles and about how quickly that meant nothing. I started to post selfies that didn’t hide the sores on my face. The more I casually acknowledged and presented without comment what was “on my face”, the more I could accept it as just as much a part of me as my freckles.

carly findlay, writer
Doctors and strangers have always believed my skin should be fixed. I was born with ichthyosis – a rare, severe skin condition that causes my skin to be red and inflamed; scaly; painful and susceptible to infections. I use paraffin ointment all over my body, which makes my face shiny and my clothes oily.

My skin can be painful, frustrating, uncomfortable and embarrassing at times. I leave behind pieces of me everywhere I go. The ointment punishes my washing machine. Plus, there are so many other symptoms that come with ichthyosis: eye dryness and light sensitivity; a lack of temperature regulation; and allergies. But it’s other people’s attitudes that impact me the most: the intrusive questions and comments; the bullying; the fear from children; the ridicule and discrimination; and the constant erasure and insensitive messaging in the media.

When I read beauty magazines, I felt embarrassed to have ichthyosis because skin conditions (including dandruff and acne) were always portrayed as something to be fixed. I also felt unseen because there were never people like me featured within magazines.

Fortunately, with social media we are more visible and we can exemplify that we don’t need fixing. I’m posting more selfies because I needed to see this when I was younger. The skin that made me ashamed and made others avoid me should not be hidden.

amy mills, artist
I have a very complex relationship with my body, from the inside to the outer shell that protects it, my skin.

As a disabled woman, I see my skin as a chronicle of pain, something that has been pinched, pierced, bruised and cut. It heals over time, but the memories are still there embedded within my scars.

When I was 12, I underwent a liver transplant which meant I was left with a large scar across my abdomen. A scar that forever connects me to someone whom I never met, a family and a story that is not wholly my own.

As my skin has changed over time, so have I. I have softened and am more accepting and loving to the parts of my skin that are the most vulnerable. I’m more open to showing myself to the world, and to showing the features that wouldn’t be considered beautiful in society. I ask myself, “Why should I be scared? Why did I wait until I was 26 to wear my first bikini?” There isn’t an easy answer to that, just a promise to myself to keep pushing against our ableist beauty standards.

When I look at the scars on my skin it evokes feelings of love, resilience, strength and community care. My skin is a love letter to myself.

jess tran, creative
When I first started developing psoriasis at 23, all I could focus on was the unfairness of it all, the tragedy of not being perfect. All my life I had longed for the perfect, smooth skin that everyone else seemed to have – every pimple and bump was an affront to an ideal of beauty I never questioned.

Our skin wraps around the precious cargo of organs and bone that makes us tender, soft creatures. Its job is to protect, to shield from the irritants of the world outside – a supple layer of armour.

It took me a long time to let go of the narrative that my skin was something that I could control and that if I could just get it as soft and smooth as everyone else’s, I would be perfect. When I did let go, a new narrative took its place, one that has always been true.

My skin is my protector. My skin is my shield. My skin is a mirror… an invitation to dig a little deeper. Psoriasis was the first invitation to look under the covers, to respond to the needs of my body. My body demanded I step away from the pressure of looking and being perfect, because I never was.

I was always imperfect – I just never allowed myself to celebrate it. I needed to look in the mirror first.

molly hunt, illustrator
We’ve all ended up hating ourselves at one point – it’s as if it’s some sort of pubescent rite of passage. Maybe you still hate yourself, or you’re on the next stage of liking, or you’re finally in love with yourself. Either way, we’re each on our own yellow brick road trying to find self-love, and I like to think I’m in the neighbourhood.

Reflecting on that winding path full of push-up bras, chokers and make-up that didn’t match my skin, I like where I am; but I didn’t always like myself. Not my face, not my body and – it breaks my heart to even write this – but not even the colour of my skin.

As a teen, I crossed the country to go to a school where I was the only Aboriginal person, and I felt as out of place as a stain on a white shirt. Drowning in a white wave, I was bamboozled into thinking I had to fit the standard of European beauty, had to be lighter, palatable and white.
It took me going back home to realise my love for my skin was always there. It was there when my skin glowed in the sun like gold; it was there when I saw Blak people succeed and it’s been there when think of my ancestors.

My skin is my strength, my family, my mob and my love.

These lovely stories were brought to you in partnership with RAWW Cosmetics, a skincare and make-up brand using skin-loving, clinically proven superfoods like Kakadu plum and acai berry. If you’re keen to get your mitts on some Aussie-made, cruelty-free goodies, pop by the RAWW Cosmetics website or take a gander at the range at your local pharmacy.