If you've ever felt like your skin has a mind of its own — like no matter what you try, it finds a new way to surprise you — this one's for you.
I've spent more than a decade navigating sensitive, acne-prone skin. The journey has been full of wrong turns, desperate experiments at 2 a.m., and products that promised everything and delivered nothing. But it's also full of small wins, hard-earned knowledge, and a deep respect for what our skin actually goes through.
This is my story. And if any part of it sounds familiar, I want you to know: you are not alone.
My complicated relationship with my skin didn't begin in my teens. It started much earlier, with eczema. Growing up, I tried everything I could get my hands on — weekly spa visits, sulfur powder from Japan added to my baths, imported French lotions. The feeling of uncomfortable, irritated skin became something I both knew intimately and deeply hated. Then, in grade 8, the acne arrived.
It started on my forehead and slowly crept down to my cheeks. Watching that happen — watching your face change and not being able to stop it — felt like drowning. As someone who grew up with the internet, I did what any determined teenager would do: I researched obsessively. My favourite Sunday ritual became wandering the aisles of Watsons, scanning every acne product on the shelf with a quiet, desperate hope.
That's when I first started learning about AHAs and BHAs. Back then, products didn't market themselves by their active ingredients the way they do now. There was no "contains 2% salicylic acid" on the front of the bottle — just vague promises like "clears acne fast." So I started reading ingredient lists myself, hunting for the BHAs I was convinced would save my skin.
They didn't. In hindsight, it was mostly hormones. But I didn't know that yet.
In 2013, I moved to Canada — a small town where my skincare options suddenly narrowed to whatever Walmart carried. I was navigating a new country, a new climate, a new diet, and skin that had no interest in cooperating.
St. Ives scrubs and heavy-handed benzoyl peroxide became my go-to products. Without fully understanding how those ingredients worked or how to use them properly, I ended up with skin that was worse than ever. The combination of harsh actives, dietary changes, and stress led to scarring — icepick scars and texture issues that I still deal with today.
Then came the decision I regret most. During a visit to Korea in the winter, my mom — alarmed by the state of my skin — took me to her dermatologist. Still in grade 11, I agreed to Fraxel laser treatment for my acne scars. I didn't fully understand how invasive it was. I went out in the sun without sunscreen afterward. I peeled. And I was left with the most sensitive skin I had ever experienced.
By the time I started university, I had mentally surrendered. It is what it is, I told myself. My first year only made things worse — more makeup, more stress, more breakouts, and no real understanding of why.
I remember watching my friends with effortlessly clear skin and feeling envious in a way that was almost suffocating. I'd ask them what their secret was, and they'd say things like "I just drink a lot of water" or "I make sure to wash my face before bed." I was already doing all of that. I eventually came to accept that my skin had its own story — one I had to figure out on my own terms.
Then came 2020. Lockdowns. Endless time indoors. And, for me, the discovery of r/skincare.
I spent hours reading through transformation posts and ingredient deep-dives. I ordered The Ordinary for the first time and became genuinely fascinated by niacinamide — how it could reduce excess oil production and help with hyperpigmentation. With more time and less stress, my skin genuinely started to improve. I had a glow I hadn't seen in years.
It felt like I had finally cracked the code.
I hadn't.