A few months back, I found myself in the skincare aisle, purchasing an array of facial products—acne pads, Neutrogena face wash, and a bundle of washcloths. Once home, I placed everything in the upstairs bathroom and told my three children, “Feel free to use any of this whenever you want.” I demonstrated how to use the pads and explained the wash’s purpose, hoping to equip them with the necessary tools and knowledge for the skin changes I know lie ahead. Although they were eager to learn, I quickly realized that my expertise lies in teenage skincare, not in managing the skin of someone in their 40s.
“Listen, kiddos, if you don’t at least rinse your face with warm water each night, your skin could become problematic. Changing your pillowcases regularly is also essential.” They looked at me with wide eyes, and my middle child chimed in, “There are kids at school who get those red things all the time. What are they called? Dimples?”
I winced. “Pimples.” The word itself is as unpleasant as the condition it describes, and I had hoped to leave that behind in my younger years. Yet, here I am, grappling with more skin issues and hair troubles than I ever faced before. I’ve attempted to follow the advice found in articles aimed at women in their 20s, 30s, 40s, and even 50s, but I still don’t feel mature enough to establish a proper “skin regimen.”
In recent years, my skin has dramatically shifted—this change was sudden and unanticipated. One moment, I was content with my haphazard application of oily-skin treatments, and the next, I emerged from the shower with a burning sensation across my face. By evening, my skin felt tight and uncomfortable, and I woke up to find it literally peeling. To combat this, I began using a sensitive skin lotion, only to find myself battling acne. I had assumed that acne was strictly a teenage issue.
The methods for managing skin problems have also evolved. Picking and squeezing blemishes are no longer viable options; my skin simply doesn’t heal the way it used to. My face resembles an archaeological site, with old breakouts leaving behind pink reminders of their presence. Concealer now forms a layer on top of my skin rather than blending seamlessly.
In an attempt to distract from my increasingly dull complexion, I’ve turned to eyeliner and mascara, but I struggle to apply the liner evenly and find it smudges within an hour. I’ve tried every mascara, from budget brands to high-end options, yet nothing seems effective. And does non-shimmery eyeshadow even exist? I often feel like a failed extra from a teen musical.
Going without makeup isn’t a solution either. Some days, I opt for a natural look—pulling my hair back, adding a touch of mascara, and pinching my cheeks for color. However, the reflection I see in the rearview mirror is a lackluster face that appears past its prime. “Fresh and dewy” seems to be a distant memory.
Ironically, the highlight of my day is removing my makeup in the evening. My children don’t seem to care about my appearance, but I anticipate the day my eldest asks to borrow my makeup. One evening, as I read a story to my three daughters, the youngest reached out and touched my forehead. “Mom, how do you make your skin tell a story with you?”
“It’s simple,” my oldest replied, playfully pinching her own forehead skin.
“But your skin isn’t mushy like Mom’s,” my youngest added.
I felt a rush of embarrassment but then heard my littlest say, “I hope I look like you when I grow up, Mom.”
“Me too,” chimed in my other two daughters.
Despite my skin being dull and marked, I have at least three people in my life who think I’m beautiful just the way I am. And that’s perfectly fine with me.
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In summary, navigating the skin changes that come with age can be frustrating, but the love and support from family can help shift the focus from appearance to the beauty of connection.