Today marks International Birthmark Awareness Day, and for the first time in a long while, I feel inspired to write—truly write—about something that has always been a part of me: my birthmark.
For as long as I can remember, this mark on my face has been more than just a patch of pigmentation. It has been a quiet witness to every chapter of my life. Though it’s always been there, only recently have I felt compelled to truly reflect on what it has meant to me. This past week, in particular, brought about a series of moments that nudged my heart to share my journey.
My birthmark has undeniably shaped the woman I am today. Has it influenced me? Absolutely. But contrary to what some might assume, it hasn’t done so in a negative way. On the contrary, it's gifted me with lessons that I cherish deeply—lessons about self-worth, empathy, and the kind of beauty that transcends appearances.
Over the years, I’ve developed an instinctive connection with people who are perceived as “different.” I’m not easily shocked by appearances, behaviors, or stories that veer from the norm. In fact, I often feel drawn to those who carry their own unique battles. And while I can’t always walk in their shoes, I understand what it feels like to be seen through a lens of curiosity or misunderstanding. That understanding has formed the foundation of my compassion.
If I could offer anything to the people I meet, I hope it’s a sense of acceptance and love—the kind that reminds you that your worth has never been tied to what’s on the surface.
Among family and friends, there’s been a long-standing, lighthearted theory that my birthmark might be the wellspring of my creativity. And I must admit, there’s a lovely poetry to that idea. I’ve always had a desire to do things differently, to create, to imagine, to build something meaningful out of ordinary moments. Perhaps there’s something mystical about a mark that nourishes not just skin, but also soul and imagination.
What surprises people is that I never really struggled with feelings of ugliness. I was never made to feel repulsive, never bullied. I’ve been blessed with good friends—genuine people—through every phase of life. That’s not to say I haven’t encountered ignorance or stares, but I’ve never let them fester into pain. And I believe that strength came from the way I was raised.
My parents never made a fuss about my birthmark. There were no hushed conversations about how to "handle" it, no attempts to shield me from the world. I was simply me. They let me grow and shine in my own time, allowed me to develop confidence naturally, and stood by my side without overprotecting. Looking back, I know their calm acceptance was a gift. Because of them, I walked into the world believing there was nothing wrong with me—and that made all the difference.
Would I still be kind and empathetic without my birthmark? I’d like to think so. But this mark has amplified those traits. It’s taught me the kind of humility that isn’t loud or performative, but grounded. It’s shown me how important it is to embrace others for who they are. It’s reinforced the truth that self-love isn’t vanity—it’s survival. It’s made me more “me.”
Now, at 45 (soon to be 46), I feel like I can truly say I know myself. I’ve lived, loved, lost, struggled, succeeded. Maybe I don’t have all the answers, but I’ve danced with life enough to understand its rhythm. And here’s what this journey—with my birthmark as a quiet companion—has taught me:
1. Beauty is everywhere. I’ve learned to find beauty in people, in moments, in imperfections. Not everyone may earn that title, of course—some people test our grace—but I’ve grown to appreciate that beauty often comes wrapped in the unexpected.
2. Compassion isn’t weakness. It's strength. I understand what it means to feel out of place, to be seen as different. That awareness has made me more attuned to the silent struggles of others. I don’t pity; I empathize.
3. Confidence changes everything. Once I truly accepted myself, everything else shifted. It gave me the courage to dream, to lead, to connect, to heal. It allowed me to stand tall—not because I’m flawless, but because I’m whole.
4. Humility keeps you grounded. I don’t walk around thinking I’m better than anyone. I know what it feels like to be misunderstood, and I carry that understanding into every conversation and connection.
5. Authentic relationships matter. I never concealed my birthmark growing up. As a result, the people in my life—friends, partners, colleagues—have always loved the real me. And that’s priceless. Even now, when I occasionally wear makeup for work or events, it’s never to hide. I wear it like I wear clothes—an accessory, not a disguise.
This mark has helped me filter the world. It has been my personal truth detector, my measure for sincerity. If you can see me for who I am—beyond skin—you’re welcome in my world. If not, keep walking.
Earlier this week, something beautiful happened. I was washing my face before bed when I noticed that, as I’ve lost some weight, my birthmark appeared darker and more vivid. Instead of feeling bothered, I paused, smiled, and went to bed with a full heart.
For those unfamiliar, birthmarks are skin markings that appear at birth or shortly after. They come in many colors and forms—flat, raised, faint, prominent. There are two main types: vascular birthmarks (linked to blood vessels) and pigmented birthmarks (caused by extra pigment in the skin). Mine is a pigmented type known as a Mongolian spot, which usually appears as a bluish patch. They’re more common in darker-skinned individuals, and typically found on the lower back or buttocks—not often on the face, and especially not on someone fair-skinned like me. But I suppose my birthmark likes being different too.
One thing to know is that Mongolian spots are sometimes mistaken for bruises, which can lead to misconceptions. I’ve had my fair share of curious glances and awkward questions: “What happened to your face?” “Is it permanent?” And while I’ve never been bullied, I know many others with visible differences have faced worse.
Some people with birthmarks choose to cover them up. Others wear them like medals. And both choices are valid. There’s no one-size-fits-all approach to loving your appearance. What matters is that, underneath it all, you love yourself.
It’s okay if you’re not there yet. It’s okay if you struggle. It’s okay if your relationship with your birthmark—or any visible difference—is complicated. What’s not okay is letting the world convince you that you’re less because of it.
To anyone reading this who has a birthmark, or any visible difference: know that you’re not alone. You are seen, you are worthy, and you are beautiful in your own right. Your happiness is your choice. Don’t let fear write your story. Don’t let society’s obsession with sameness dull your shine.
And if you’re a parent to a child with a birthmark—don’t panic. Love them, support them, and remind them often that they are enough, just as they are. Your calm, confident love will shape their world more than you know.
I’ve always said that everyone has flaws—mine just happens to be visible. But honestly? I wouldn’t call it a flaw. I’d call it a gift. A gentle reminder that I was made with intention, with uniqueness, and with grace.
You don’t have to love your birthmark immediately. That love can take time. But never forget: your mark doesn’t define you—your heart, your spirit, and how you treat others, that’s what matters most.
So on this International Birthmarks Awareness Day, I stand proudly. Marked by pigment, yes—but more so, marked by compassion, wisdom, and an unshakeable sense of self.
Love yourself first. The rest will follow.
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