Facing Shame

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When puberty started appearing on my cheeks in the form of inflamed, puss-filled spots, I was embarrassed. My mom told me it was a phase I would eventually outgrow.

When I reached my 20s, the spots matured into adult acne, marking the beginning of an obsessive search. 

When I wasn’t looking at my blemishes in the mirror, I was searching for them on others — on strangers, on TV, and online. I was desperate for any sign I wasn’t the only one fighting a stubborn army of red invaders.

While I thought the acne was the problem, I see now what the real problem was and is: mainstream media has done a better job of erasing acne than any apricot scrub ever has. 

Setting The Stage

When the media acknowledges acne, it frames it as a problem — and even then, it doesn’t fully show it. Instead, we see celebrities holding up oil-free cleansers next to their flawless faces, or ads for high-coverage concealers accompanied by before-and-after photos that look virtually the same, aside from a lone pimple on the model’s cheek.

One-off pimples are also frequently turned into episode plotlines for kids and teen shows. The offending pimple is dramatized as a humiliating obstacle for characters to overcome. With an impressionable mind, I watched as zits were cast as on-screen villains, turning proms, first dates, and school picture days into full-blown disasters. These stories often conclude with a lesson on looking beyond the surface. But is portraying acne as repulsive or a joke an effective way to reinforce this message?

The message falls even flatter when Hollywood only shows a full-blown breakout to signal a character is a teenage loser or inherently flawed. For instance, “Craterface” was a perfectly acceptable name for the antagonistic gang leader in the 1978 classic film Grease.

When I was young, my parents bought a portable DVD player to help pass the countless hours we spent on the road during summer vacations. Though we always packed a variety of movies, we inevitably ended up watching the first season of our most beloved show, Hannah Montana, on repeat. By the end of summer 2008, my siblings and I had every episode etched into our brains. 

One of those episodes leaned into the teenage pimple trope.

Because of her clear skin, Hannah Montana became the poster child for a skincare brand. But when a giant billboard ad revealed the pop star sporting a massive photoshopped zit, she started to freak out. Horrified, she snuck onto the billboard and painted over the blemish. By the end of the episode, we see her wash off the paint as a proclamation that “looks don’t matter!” 

This “positive” message didn’t stick. Instead, every re-watch made me more and more familiar with the idea that acne is something to be covered up.

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According to WebMD, an estimated 85 per cent of teens worldwide have acne, but television often feeds them the idea that what they’re experiencing is abnormal and grotesque — especially when fresh-faced, clear-skinned 20-year-olds are playing the leads in teen shows. 

The message the media is portraying is resoundingly clear: acne is incompatible with likeability. Acne makes you ugly, and less desirable. 

Breakout Role 

My perception of my body shifted as I entered my teenage years. Reflective surfaces became enemies, and cameras became assault weapons. I hated my legs, my growing hips, and my Greek nose. The random pesky zits added to my shame.

I developed a dependency on bottles of Maybelline Fit Me foundation. I began waking up an hour earlier to accommodate my new routine. Leaving the house just wasn’t possible without wearing a few layers of carefully applied makeup. Other girls at school or on social media didn’t seem to have blemishes, so I decided I shouldn’t either.

When I turned 16, my favourite product started to lose its magic, and it was no longer able to mask what was erupting underneath. I thought I had seen myself with bad skin, but reality hit hard when clusters of painful, red bumps started spreading relentlessly across my cheeks and jawline. 

If Hannah Montana couldn’t handle being seen with a pimple she didn’t have in real life, how would the episode have played out if she had woken up with a breakout like mine? What would she have done?

What I did was stare at my reflection until tears blurred my vision. I spent days buried underneath the covers, as if hiding could make my face disappear.

Now, I know that might sound a bit dramatic (something I have heard time and time again), but unless you’ve experienced cystic acne, which in comparison to regular acne is more painful, harder to treat, and often leaves scars, it’s hard to fully grasp how mentally and physically debilitating it can be. 

Acne started to control my life. I skipped classes and cancelled plans with friends. I stopped holding eye contact. I assumed I wasn’t liked. I avoided dairy, overhead fluorescent lighting, and being in pictures. When I did end up in photos, I spent hours editing them. I was constantly thinking about how bad it looked or how painful it felt. Only after a breakout started to subside did I feel like I could enjoy life again. Whenever my acne cleared up, so did my depression.

Our skin is the largest and most visible organ we have, playing a huge role in how we express ourselves and how others view us. An article published in Dermatological Reviews explains skin can communicate our emotions, our health, and our identity.

When the skin’s appearance is altered by conditions like acne, dermatitis, psoriasis, or vitiligo, the impact goes beyond the surface. People with these conditions are more susceptible to experiencing depression, anxiety, and poor body image, which can cause challenges in their social lives, relationships, and even careers.

The way we look and how others see us are core parts of being human.

In the years following my first cystic breakout, I realized I’d never be truly free. People with hormonal cystic acne are often left with stubborn scars and discoloration. And just when that starts to fade, the skin becomes prime real estate for a new colony of pimples. I was trapped in a cycle: breaking out, sinking into depression, clearing up, then fearing it would come back.

Behind The Scenes

One of the most confusing things for me was how my friends would always downplay my acne, insisting it wasn’t a big deal. They couldn’t understand why I’d stay in my room on weekends instead of going out with them. But when they had their own skin issues pop up, the narrative shifted quickly. 

Oh my god, look at how disgusting this zit on my chin is. I’m so annoyed.

I heard this same complaint from a few of my friends on separate occasions, and each time it baffled me. How were they able to look me in the eyes while saying that? If they thought they looked repulsive with just one pimple, what did they think about me and my acne? I didn’t want to know.

Acne is often dismissed as a superficial issue, but it runs much deeper.

To better understand how people perceive acne, I ran a poll on my Instagram story, asking my followers to rate how noticeable they found acne when talking face-to-face with someone who had it. Of the 85 people who responded, 42 per cent admitted they found it distracting in some way.

What comes to mind when you see someone with acne? Does their hygiene or ability to take care of themselves come into question? Do you question their diet? Do you view them as less successful, or undesirable?  

In 2023, a Harvard Medical School study revealed how much acne stigma impacts quality of life — affecting everything from personal relationships to employment opportunities.

Researchers took stock portraits of four men and women from various backgrounds. They edited each photo, creating two more versions of each: one with mild acne and another with severe acne. The researchers conducted an online survey with more than 1,000 participants, who were randomly shown one of the 12 altered images and asked questions about their perceptions of the person in the photo.

The team found participants were less likely to want to be friends with, get close to, or even post a photo with someone who had severe acne. What’s even more unsettling is those same people reported even stronger feelings toward those with darker skin.

The study also showed respondents bought into common stereotypes about people with severe acne, seeing them as unhygienic, unattractive, unintelligent, and untrustworthy.

I’ve never been outright bullied for my acne. No one has ever called me “pizza-face” or told me I’m ugly. But in most cases, it’s the subtle remarks that carry an unassuming cruelty. The breakouts I faced in adulthood seemed to invite even more comments, questions and concerns than the ones I had as a teenager.

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“What happened to you?” 

Blindsided, I looked up from steaming a pitcher of milk to see who had made the comment. It was “Spinach-Feta-Wrap-Susan,” a Starbucks regular. She typically wouldn’t start a conversation with me that wasn’t about the temperature of her latte. 

The question quickly reminded me that I wasn’t wearing a mask. Even after masking mandates had long been lifted, some of us baristas still chose to keep ours on at work. For me, it meant skipping an extensive makeup routine and sleeping in a bit longer before a shift.

That day’s lunch rush at my coffee shop job had been intense and sweaty. I needed a chance to breathe, so I momentarily pulled my mask off.

I awkwardly explained to Susan that I was dealing with a bad bout of hormonal acne, trying my best to mask my offence. Why did I owe her an explanation? Couldn’t she see what it was?

Susan went on to give me the same old advice all people with cystic acne come to know and despise: Have you tried washing your face more? What about drinking water? Make sure you’re not putting makeup on top of that. I would avoid the sugary drinks you guys have at this place if I were you.

I knew people like her meant well, but that didn’t make me feel any better. It was unhelpful, and it also reminded me that people saw my face, and thought it was something that needed fixing.

People had other ways of driving this point home too. Once at work, a few coworkers and I were gossiping when the conversation took a turn. “Emily, your skin is literally perfect. How do you always look so glowy?” I stood there, smiling awkwardly, while Emily broke down the intricacies of her seven-step skincare routine. Suddenly, I was aware of how imperfect I must’ve looked standing beside her. My coworker probably noticed my skin too, but she wasn’t going to say anything.

Hateful comments posted publicly to platforms like YouTube or Instagram can also sting. Even though these were words aimed at someone else, they still felt deeply personal. They reflected a broader, hurtful narrative about acne.

“Take her swimming on the first date” is a 2016 meme that still haunts me. When it first came out, this inherently sexist internet trend flooded my timeline with side-by-side photos of women with and without a full face of makeup. The women had most likely posted these comparison pictures to showcase their makeup skills. I imagined the gut punch of having their work overshadowed by the message that “women are false advertisers.”

It was just as aggravating hearing that most men preferred a more “natural” look, knowing there was no room for blemishes or hyperpigmentation within that sentiment.

Confusion and rage began to well up inside of me as the joke continued to circulate — it ran through my head over and over before I fell asleep.

If I wear makeup, I am fake and vain. If I don’t wear makeup, I am dirty, unhealthy, and ugly.

I wrestled with this cycle, weighing both sides until I realized I was dealing with another impossible standard imposed on women. It wasn’t something I could change. But all I wanted was for people to understand that makeup was what helped me face the world each day. Was I a fraud for wanting to hide an insecurity I had no control over?

Still, I entered the dating world convinced my acne made me less worthy. The thought of someone kissing my red, bumpy, irritated cheeks made me cringe. 

The Sequel 

At twenty years old, I spent six months travelling through Europe and Asia. The constant shift between climates, new foods, and exposure to unfamiliar pollutants irritated my skin.

When I landed back on Canadian soil in 2020, two outbreaks ensued: one on my face, and one in the world around me. Both were like nothing I had seen before.

Conveniently, I had no choice but to hide at home. I quickly fell into another depression, overwhelmed by the same existential dread acne always made me feel. I was so tired of feeling abnormal and alone in my struggle. Scrolling through Instagram during the lockdown, I began encountering a surge of acne-positive content for the first time. People were talking openly about their acne and showing their real skin. It took me by surprise. Seeing my own skin reflected in the photos of others gave me the relief I had been desperately searching for and comforted me through the rest of my breakout during quarantine. For the first time in a long while, it felt like I wasn’t alone.

As someone who had been following Youtuber Em Ford (@mypaleskinblog) since she posted her viral video “YOU LOOK DISGUSTING”, I was aware that some people were trying to normalize the discussion surrounding acne online. By 2020, it looked as though it was starting to gain momentum.

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#freethepimple was born, led by influencers on Instagram like Lou Northcote (@lounorthcote), Sofia Grahn (@isofiagrahn), and Izzie Rodgers (@izzierodgers). They began posting unedited selfies paired with emotionally raw captions that echoed the feelings I had about my skin. At the same time, brands like Starface and Banish started featuring models with real, untouched skin — blemishes, scars, and all — offering a level of authenticity that legacy brands like Neutrogena or Proactiv rarely embraced.

The movement grew, inspiring hundreds of others to share acne-positive posts and creating a sense of belonging I had been searching for. For the first time, a platform that had once made me feel inadequate was carving out a space where I felt seen, understood, and empowered. It was a kind of representation I had never witnessed on social media until then. After years of being bombarded with mainstream media’s airbrushed depictions of skin, I felt seen.

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Samantha Miller, an esthetician based in Winnipeg, notes that in light of the acne positivity movement, she’s observed a significant shift within the beauty industry in recent years. She says there’s been a resurgence in adult acne education, something that wasn’t widely acknowledged or discussed before.

Miller, who started her career at 19, dealt with typical teenage acne, but it persisted into adulthood when her esthetician curriculum required frequent facials and exposure to products that didn’t properly suit her skin.

“Sometimes I could tell that clients were judging me during a facial. They would look me over, almost like they were thinking, ‘Oh, does she know what she’s talking about? Her skin doesn’t look great,’” says Miller.

Today, she uses her experience with acne to ensure her clients know they’re not alone, especially those dealing with adult acne.

What Miller finds most refreshing is the wealth of information available to the public, through social media, skincare websites, and the growing number of influencers and educators sharing their expertise. It’s a stark contrast to the past, where acne skincare felt taboo. Now, those with acne have a voice, and are no longer forced to suffer in silence.

“People are wearing stars on their face now,” says Miller, referencing the rise of pimple patches. “Before, you would never be caught dead highlighting that you have a breakout. But nowadays, we’re able to expose it and heal it at the same time, which I think is huge.”

As someone who wears pimple patches myself, I’ve found comfort in covering pimples with something colorful and cute. This feels like a larger statement I’ve come to embrace: If you’re someone who confidently embraces their redness and bumps, that’s amazing. If you’re someone who gets upset by your texture or blemishes and wants the option to heal them or cover them up, that’s good too.

When the acne positivity movement surfaced on the internet, we saw an initial surge in self-love. But like all things, trends evolve. In 2025, we’ve entered a new, and perhaps more refined stage of the movement — the neutrality stage. The shift now feels more like a quiet acceptance of skin and body as they are, without the pressure to force positivity. It’s a space where simply acknowledging your skin’s reality can eventually lead to a more authentic form of self-love.

Skin neutrality recognizes skin is not good or bad, and the “glass skin” or “glazed donut skin” we see on platforms like TikTok isn’t always attainable. It encourages embracing the natural state of our skin without striving toward an unrealistic standard and validates all the feelings we have about our skin, both positive and negative.

Thanks to increasing acne representation in the media, I’m able to accept my skin. At 24, I’m still using birth control to keep my pimples at bay, and while it feels a bit controversial due to concerns about hormonal health, it’s what works for me. I still wear makeup on most days, but I’m slowly starting to feel comfortable showing my natural face outside of the safety of home. It feels easier now, knowing  if I were to face another breakout, there are so many more sources of support I can turn to that didn’t exist before. The #acnepositivity community on Instagram continues to thrive and films like Lady Bird and Eighth Grade are supplying us real-life heroines with authentic skin.

Coming Soon…

I suspect acne will always be something I struggle with. Admitting that feels like I’m undoing all the work I’ve done to find peace with my skin. While the rise of acne positivity and neutrality is important, they alone can’t erase the socially embedded issues that make them necessary. At the end of the day, a makeup-less selfie can’t dismantle the stigma that’s been ingrained in us.  Until we have a broader, more honest conversation about acne and other skin conditions — one that goes beyond social media and forces us to reject the stereotypes we’ve adopted — nothing can truly change. Until then, I’ll continue wearing stars on my face like little badges of honour, a testament to the healing work that’s been done and the work still to come.