For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a complicated relationship with my skin. As a multiracial woman, I grew up surrounded by beautiful shades, yet I struggled to see the beauty in my own complexion. I often give my characters brown or tan skin because I know how important it is to see all shades represented—something I learned from my own struggle to love the skin I’m in.
Growing Up Between Shades
Growing up with Black, white, and Hispanic heritage, I never felt I entirely belonged. I was never “Black enough,” “white enough,” or “Latina enough.” Not speaking Spanish made me feel even less Latina. In fourth grade, I even checked “White” on a form to align with the majority. My alarmed teacher called home, which made it clear I was already lost about who I was.
Losing Color, Finding Strength
In my early twenties, I saw white spots appear on my brown skin. It turned out to be vitiligo, a condition that destroys pigment. Over the next decade, those spots spread until nearly all my skin lost its color. The girl who once tanned easily became almost entirely fair. Ironically, I got what I wanted as a kid—to be pale—but at the cost of the complexion I now miss. With no melanin, I’m vulnerable to burns and skin cancer, so I have to avoid all sun and UV exposure.
The emotional impact was just as devastating. As my skin grew patchy, I became intensely self-conscious and tried to cover every white patch with makeup and clothing to look “normal” again. People would stare or bluntly ask what was wrong with my skin, making me want to disappear. My self-esteem plummeted, and I began avoiding social situations because I hated how I looked.
With time and support, I healed and learned to accept myself, spots and all. Today I’m nearly fully depigmented, but at peace with my reflection. I still miss my old caramel skin, but I no longer feel defined by pigment. My worth isn’t tied to any shade, and I’m grateful for the health I have.
Representation in My Writing
As the mother of a brown-skinned girl, I’m more aware than ever of why representation matters. My daughter notices that Mommy’s skin is lighter, and I tell her how beautiful her caramel skin is. I want her to see characters in stories who look like her, so she knows her skin is gorgeous, and she can be the hero of any story.
That’s why many heroines in my fiction have tan and dark skin or come from mixed backgrounds—I’m celebrating the skin I had and the skin my daughter has. I remember how isolating it felt when none of the characters in my favorite stories looked like me, and I don’t want the next generation to feel that way. Through my stories, I show that every shade is beautiful and everyone deserves to see themselves as heroes.
In the end, what began as a source of insecurity has become a source of pride and purpose. I’ve learned to love the skin I’m in, and I want to help others do the same. If my journey helps one person feel more at home in their own skin, every painful lesson was worth it.