Taking my life back! Pt.1
I will never allow my eczema to rob me of my happiness again.
This is my story...it is a story about being broken, feeling lost, and coming out stronger than I ever thought I would be.
Unlike most people with eczema, I did not develop it until I was an adult and expecting my third child. As soon as I found out I was pregnant my body began to go through aome unfamiliar changes. In my previous pregnancies I had experienced the nausea, cravings, and of course put on some weight, but this time was different. My skin became very sensitive and extremely dry. For years I had worked in the beauty industry, and so as you can imagine, the physical appearance of a person was very important. I tried all kinds of creams, lotions, oils, and home remedies to try and "fix" what was happening to my skin, primarily my face. Nothing seemed to work, on the contrary I always ended up looking much worse. I brought my concerns to my doctor, but he said it was most likely just my hormones. I knew each pregnancy could be different so I took his word for it. As the pregnancy went along my upper lip became really red and inflammed. It looked as if I had my upper lip waxed and burned. No amount of makeup could mask it. It was peeling, dry, and many times it would get these tiny cuts. I kept telling my doctor, but still there was very little to be done because of the pregnancy. I started to become vwry self conscious. I was tired of meeting with colleagues and clients, and having them point out how bad my face looked. There was nothing I could do. I began calling off work, and getting so worked up that I developed pre-eclampsia. My BP was so high, and my self esteem was so low. I no longer wanted to see family, I didn't want to go outside, and I resented the thought that my pregnancy was causing this. When I found out that this would be my first boy people started to say that my body was rejecting the male hormones. What?! Why was my body fighting this baby boy that was growing inside me. Why was my body failing me? Was I not meant to have any boys? When you are pregnant you are already on an emotional roller coaster, but now this was just to overwhelming. I was depressed and that too made me feel guilty, it made me afraid, and I didn't want to tell anyone for fear they may think I was unstable or that something was "wrong" with me. I was put on bed rest after countless ER visits for my BP. I remember laying in the recliner in my bedroom watching my little girls play outside with my husband. I wanted to be a part of that fun, but I was unable to. I would cry and beat myself up for not being able to participate in all the activities my daughters were in, and felt I was missing out. My husband had to grocer shop, cook, work, clean, and all I could do was just sit on my recliner. If I had a doctor's appointment I would wear my baseball cap, and try to not make eye contact with anyone. My face was weeping, full of hives, and looked more purple than red.
I felt like no one understood me. I felt like I was being judged by everyone because I no longer attended family gatherings. I didn't want anyone to see me. I didn't want any company. No one seemed to
understand that.
Being away from everyone caused a disconnect with many people. To this day my relationship with many of them is not the same. They didn't understand then, and they don't understand now. When you live a certain way for the majority of your life, and then something drastically changes in your body it isn't easy to just adapt...especially with something you don't even understand. No one had said the "E" word to me yet. No one had given my skin flares and reactions a name.
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Lost but Trying
There are moments in life when everything feels lost—not dramatically, not loudly, but quietly. The kind of loss that settles into your bones and makes even simple breathing feel heavy. For Adam, that moment came on an ordinary Tuesday morning when he realized he had nowhere left to go. At twenty-seven, Adam wasn’t supposed to feel this tired. He wasn’t supposed to feel like life had already passed him by. Yet there he was, sitting on the edge of a narrow bed in a rented room, staring at peeling paint on the wall, wondering how everything had gone so wrong. He had once been full of plans. Big ones. Dreams of building something meaningful, of becoming someone his younger self would be proud of. But life, as it often does, had other ideas. Adam grew up in a small town where hope was common but opportunities were rare. His father worked long hours, his mother carried silent strength, and everyone believed that education would be the escape route. Adam believed it too. He studied hard, stayed out of trouble, and dreamed even harder. But dreams don’t always come with instructions. After college, rejection letters became his daily routine. Job interviews led to polite smiles and empty promises. “We’ll get back to you,” they said. Most never did. Slowly, confidence turned into doubt. Doubt turned into fear. And fear became a constant companion. When his father fell ill, Adam returned home. Medical bills piled up. Savings vanished. Dreams were postponed, then quietly buried. After his father’s death, the house felt too empty, too loud in its silence. Adam left again, this time not chasing dreams, but running from memories. The city welcomed him with indifference. He worked temporary jobs—delivery rider, warehouse helper, night security guard. None lasted long. Each job paid just enough to survive, never enough to grow. Failure followed him like a shadow, whispering reminders of what he hadn’t become. One night, after being laid off yet again, Adam walked aimlessly through the city streets. Neon lights blurred into streaks of color. Laughter spilled out of cafés he couldn’t afford. He felt invisible, like a background character in everyone else’s success story. That night, he considered giving up. Not dramatically. Not with a note or tears. Just a quiet decision to stop trying. To accept that some people were meant to struggle forever. He sat on a bench near a bus stop, head in his hands, when an old man sat beside him. “You look like someone who’s lost,” the man said gently. Adam didn’t reply. The old man continued, “Being lost isn’t the problem. Staying lost is.” Adam finally looked up. The man’s face was lined with age, but his eyes carried a calm confidence, the kind earned through survival. “I’ve tried,” Adam said bitterly. “Nothing works.” The man smiled softly. “Trying doesn’t guarantee success. It guarantees growth.” Adam wanted to argue, but something in the man’s voice stopped him. “I failed more times than I can count,” the old man added. “But each failure taught me something. Most people quit right before life changes.” The bus arrived. The old man stood up. “Don’t stop trying,” he said. “Even slow steps are steps forward.” Then he was gone. Adam sat there long after the bus left. For the first time in months, something shifted inside him—not hope exactly, but curiosity. What if stopping wasn’t the answer? What if trying, even imperfectly, still mattered? The next day, Adam did something small. He updated his resume. It wasn’t impressive, but it was honest. He applied for jobs he felt un for. He watched free online courses at night. He started writing—short thoughts, reflections, anything that helped him release the weight inside. Days turned into weeks. Rejections continued, but so did effort. One evening, Adam posted a short piece of writing online. He didn’t expect much. But comments came in. Strangers resonated with his words. Someone said, “This feels like my life.” Another wrote, “Thank you for putting my feelings into words.” For the first time, Adam felt seen. He kept writing. Months later, he landed a small content job—not glamorous, not permanent—but real. It paid little, but it paid consistently. More importantly, it gave him purpose. Life didn’t magically improve overnight. Problems didn’t disappear. Some days were still heavy. But Adam noticed something new: he no longer felt stuck. Trying had changed him. He learned that progress isn’t loud. It doesn’t announce itself. It arrives quietly, disguised as persistence. He learned that being lost doesn’t mean being broken. Sometimes it simply means you’re between versions of yourself. Years later, Adam would look back on that bench, that night, and that stranger. He would realize that the turning point wasn’t a job or success—it was a decision. A decision to keep trying, even when trying hurt. Because sometimes, the bravest thing you can do isn’t winning. It’s not quitting.
By Inayat khan5 days ago in Motivation
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