In the COVID era, nobody seems to care about my acne – me least of all

This First Person column is written by Morgan Dick who lives in Calgary. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ. 

The first one arrived in early 2020. A purplish nub, slightly squishy, slightly tender, right there in the middle of my chin. Others soon followed. Big ones, small ones, hard ones, soft ones. They multiplied quickly, engulfing my nose and mouth within weeks.

I ran to my family doctor, who confirmed the worst: Adult-onset acne. Mine happened to be cystic, which was as gross as it sounds. Painful, too. But not the end of the world, I reminded myself. I was a grown-up, after all, and grown-ups didn't let blocked pores stop them. 

While I braved my new affliction with platitudes, prescription drugs, and an outward look of indifference, on the inside — try as I might to deny it — my ego was smarting. 

Thanks in no small part to the privilege I hold as a young, thin white woman, I've always enjoyed a mostly positive body image. That's not to say I don't spend hours each week inspecting stretch marks and pinching belly fat and plucking stray hairs. I do. I scrutinize, I sigh, and I move on. 

But acne? In my late twenties? It felt wrong. It felt unfair. 

Bristling at the injustice, I slathered my face with foundation and tried not to notice when colleagues talked to my zit-speckled chin instead of me. (A note to fellow acne-sufferers: invest in non-comedogenic products or forget makeup entirely; otherwise, you'll only feed the fire.)