In 2007, I made a life-altering decision that only took a moment. One phone call, a few words of acknowledgment, and a quick note in my planner were all it took to stop a habit I had cultivated for nearly two decades. It’s astonishing how easily I turned my back on something that had consumed so much of my time. While others deliberate for weeks over mundane choices, I simply decided to stop tanning, akin to how I would turn off the water in my sink.
Growing up in the era of Teen magazine and Tiger Beat, I was drawn to the allure of a sun-kissed glow. Despite my fair skin, green eyes, and reddish-blonde hair—traits my grandfather lovingly referred to as “strawberry blonde”—I yearned for the bronzed look that seemed to define beauty in the ’80s and ’90s. Starting at age 12, I would set out with baby oil and a radio, seeking the sunniest spot in my yard, lying on a sticky lawn chair, and turning every half hour to ensure an even exposure. My skin often burned and peeled, but I remained determined, convinced that the painful redness would eventually transform into a tan.
As I transitioned into adulthood, my quest for the perfect tan led me to tanning beds. Despite my initial hesitation and the warnings I had heard about their dangers, my desire to look healthy and bronzed prevailed. By 18, I was regularly spending time in a tanning bed, sweating under intense lights, and eventually found myself visiting three to four times a week during the warmer months. My skin did darken, and for a time, I felt like I had finally achieved my goal.
However, I was oblivious to the addiction that came with tanning. The experience brought me a sense of satisfaction beyond just aesthetics; the smell of tanning products filled me with glee, even as I now realize it was a toxic relationship. By 2007, I had developed permanent tan lines, a testament to my relentless pursuit of the sun. Even after having two children, my skin was still red and marked by age spots, and I never considered quitting.
Then my friend, Laura, became the catalyst for change. One day in 2007, she pointed out a dark, horseshoe-shaped mole on my arm. I hadn’t given it much thought, but her concern prompted me to see my doctor. Within a week, I learned that I had melanoma. After having the mole surgically removed, I was left with a scar and a new perspective on my choices.
From that moment on, I abandoned tanning beds. I also started using sunscreen diligently, protecting my children’s skin as fiercely as I could. Since my diagnosis, I’ve had multiple skin checks and several basal cell carcinoma removals, each with its own set of scars. Last fall, I began a treatment called Efudex to combat precancerous spots—a necessary step I wouldn’t have faced had I not indulged in tanning.
While my story is far less tragic than many others I’ve encountered, I acknowledge the risks I took. I’ve read heart-wrenching accounts of individuals battling cancer, and I count myself lucky. I no longer frequent tanning beds, and my children only know the importance of sunscreen. I am pale and alive, a testament to having turned away from a dangerous obsession.
For anyone seeking more information on pregnancy and skin health, check out this excellent resource on the CDC’s website. You might also find interesting insights in one of our other blog posts about skin protection and health. If you’re considering at-home insemination, reputable retailers like Make A Mom offer various kits to help you on your journey.
In summary, my journey from a tanning enthusiast to a skin cancer survivor serves as a cautionary tale. It’s vital to be informed and to prioritize health over fleeting beauty trends. Today, I embrace my pale skin and advocate for safer practices.
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