I had been managing eczema since I was nineteen.
By the time I was in my thirties, I had been “managing” my skin for so long that managing was just another word for surviving.
The flexures came first — backs of the knees, inside of the elbows. By twenty-four it was on my forearms. By twenty-eight it had moved to my neck and the side of my face.
I tried “sensitive” everything.
I tried fragrance-free, low-irritant, dermatologist-approved, internet-approved.
I tried steroid creams that worked until they didn’t.
Then stronger ones.
Then the cycle: calm it down, flare again, calm it down, flare again.
At one point I could have opened a small museum of failed creams.
Every drawer in my bathroom had a story.
Every one of them had been bought with hope.
I had spent — by my best estimate, and I'd done the maths on a Sunday morning sitting on the bathroom floor — about six and a half thousand dollars over twelve years trying to fix my skin.
I even did the whole “maybe it’s my diet” spiral.
Dairy, Gluten, Sugar.
Everything became suspicious.
Every dermatologist appointment had ended the same way. Manage your triggers. Stronger steroid for flares. Some people just have it.
If I was honest, I wasn’t looking for skincare anymore.
I was looking for my life back.
That had been November. Hannah found me in the carpark in February.