This week, I heard a quotation that stuck with me: “Humans are designed to feel fulfilment in self-sacrifice.” We find joy in giving to others, often seeking purpose in those around us. Connection is a fundamental human desire. But what happens when visible differences or health conditions make dating, connection and love feel inaccessible?
Eczema may as well be my partner at this point, as I continue to gift most of my energy to the lifelong battle with my skin condition. It has taken me 24 years to feel comfortable in my body, let alone desirable, and though I am a hopeless romantic to my core, I have often let insecurities deter me from dating new people.
The thought of bringing someone new into my life – someone who might judge my body, see the redness, scars and flaking that I am quick to cover, feels overwhelming. There’s a nagging at the back of my brain every time I lean in closer to someone, laugh at their jokes or think about bringing my lips to theirs. Many years have been spent tugging at the ends of my sleeves to bury my cracked hands beneath, so when that same hand is held by a romantic partner there is an uncomfortable vulnerability that follows.
‘What if they’re put off by the texture of my skin?’
‘What if they’re repulsed by me?’
‘What if they never want to touch me?’
‘Are they embarrassed to be seen with me?’
There’s an isolation that comes with carrying a visible difference, one that’s often self-inflicted. We are all steeped in preconceived notions about our own desirability that stem from an innocent comment from a curious schoolmate, (“why is your skin so red?”) Or lingering eyes that perch upon our unique skin texture for just a second too long, moving our minds from “do they think I’m attractive?” to “do they think I’m disgusting?”
I have dated people in the past, who struggled when my skin flared.
But the older I get, the more people surprise me. I’m starting to find freedom in my visible difference, and a gratitude that conventional beauty isn’t always accessible to me. I hear my friends discussing the first times their boyfriends saw them without makeup and the anxiety it raised, the pride they have in their vulnerability. As someone with a skin condition, I am unable to wear heavy makeup, shave, tan or use scented products. The unspoken checklist of femininity remains unticked. Why can I not wear the same pride that my friends celebrate when they remove their makeup, when I conquer each day with naked skin?
A visible difference is a blessing in disguise, in my opinion. Particularly in the dating world. It’s a shortcut to finding the people who truly see you – and not just surface beauty. I have dated people in the past, who struggled when my skin flared, being unable to provide support or reassurance in the way that I would give in return. Letting them go was difficult, but in hindsight, my skin condition revealed something invaluable. It showed me who I could – and couldn’t – count on when I needed support most. An organic litmus test for introducing supportive, genuine people into your life.
Anthony has met someone who treats her visible difference with kindness.
This Valentine’s Day, I am pleased to tell you… I am dating someone new. I might not realise how much of a kind soul they were if it wasn’t for my beautifully flawed skin. Before our first date, he told me “there is no expectations from me. Don’t shave, don’t wear makeup, don’t hide the skin that makes you who you are.” A sentiment that resonated so deeply within me, a warmth to compete with the more severe heat rashes I’ve experienced. It’s a kindness I wouldn’t have been able to receive if it wasn’t for my visible difference.
With him, the insecurities and difficulties I felt held back by in past relationships, are secret keys to unique and sacred levels of intimacy. For example, when my legs start to turn dry or are hit by a heat rash, he will gently run his fingers over them to calm my nerves. He asks me which of his clothes feel best against my skin, so we can cuddle. I am grateful not just to have met him, but be able to establish how deeply his kindness runs, and those who are like minded.
I am grateful for my visible difference, I am grateful for my skin. Beauty, after all, isn’t skin deep.
