“Every mirror, every shop window, every reflective surface became something I had to check, not out of vanity, but out of fear.”
From as far back as I can remember – maybe 12 or 13 – the moment I became aware of my reflection, something inside me shifted. I never saw what other people saw. Every mirror, every shop window, every reflective surface became something I had to check, not out of vanity, but out of fear… fear that it would confirm what I already believed: that I looked wrong, awful, ‘horrendous’.
It wasn’t just feeling ugly, it was an obsession that wrapped itself around me. My hair became the centre of it. Being a redhead in the 2000s, with thick, wild, wavy hair that never did what I wanted, felt like a curse. Everyone wanted pin‑straight hair and thin eyebrows, and I had neither. I remember the first time I used straighteners, the shock of seeing my hair change, the tiny spark of hope, and then the crash that followed when the damage, the greasiness, the separation made me feel even worse. Greasy hair became something I hated with a kind of panic. I felt dirty, ashamed, convinced people would think I was disgusting.
I spent so much money, so much time, chasing the promise of ‘shiny, easy hair’, believing that if I could just fix that one thing, maybe I could finally like myself. But every new shampoo, every treatment, every hopeful delivery turned into disappointment. I hid it from people I lived with because the shame was too much.
At my lowest, BDD made me feel like disappearing. I genuinely believed the world would be better without me, that no one would care because I was ‘so ugly’. I stopped leaving the house unless I absolutely had to. I cancelled plans, made excuses, and hurt friendships without ever telling the truth – that I was terrified of being seen.
I spent hours in front of mirrors. Skin‑picking and hair‑plucking became rituals I couldn’t stop, even when they hurt me. I’d make my skin bleed, scab, and then pick again trying to ‘fix’ it. I carried tweezers everywhere. I felt trapped in a cycle I didn’t choose and couldn’t escape. And the anger I felt toward myself for not being able to stop… it was exhausting.
I look back and see how much time BDD has stolen from me, how many experiences, how much joy, how much life. I’m 40 now, and it took until last year to finally reach a point where I couldn’t keep going like that. I didn’t want to live in that pain anymore. One night, at my lowest, I searched the internet for anything – any story, any person – who might understand. That’s when I found the BDD Foundation and the 20‑week Overcoming BDD programme.
Reading those testimonials… it was the first time in my entire life I felt seen. Truly seen. Every word echoed something I had felt but never been able to explain. The relief of knowing I wasn’t alone was overwhelming. For so long I thought everyone secretly hated themselves and that confidence was something other people pretended to have.
I applied. Speaking to Gem during the screening was the first time I talked to someone who got it. I was grateful, terrified, hopeful. Twenty weeks felt huge. But it turned out to be one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. The group was incredible – no judgement, just understanding, compassion, and connection. By the end, none of us wanted it to stop.
I think a part of me hoped the programme would ‘fix’ me completely, that I’d come out cured. But healing doesn’t work like that. Twenty weeks is a beginning, not an ending. And yet… the change in me is real. The tools I’ve learned, the way I speak to myself now, the tiny moments of peace I never thought I’d feel, they’re proof that I can survive this. That I can get better. That the thoughts in my head aren’t the truth.
It’s not about being beautiful or ugly. It’s about not letting my appearance dictate my entire life. And slowly, slowly – it’s getting better. I’m learning self‑compassion. I’m learning not to punish myself. I’m learning to breathe.
My friends and family have been incredible. They’ll never fully understand, and I wouldn’t want them to, but their support has kept me going. I don’t know where I’d be without them.
Sometimes I wish I could go back and hold my younger self. Tell her she’s safe. Tell her she’s loved. Tell her that one day she’ll find people who understand her, and she’ll start to like herself, even just a little. But I also know that everything I’ve lived through has shaped who I am now.
BDD is cruel. It fills you with guilt and shame – how can someone with a good life be so consumed by how they look? But it’s real, and it’s painful, and it deserves to be talked about. I’m grateful it’s finally being spoken about more openly. And I’m grateful for the BDD Foundation for giving me something I never had before: the feeling of not being alone.