I’ve Had Mysterious Scars On My Face Since I Was A Baby. When I Finally Told People The Truth, They Couldn’t Handle It.

The harsh fluorescent lights of the gym made everything look worse, like they were designed specifically to point out every flaw. As I wiped sweat from my face after a brutal set of squats, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My hand moved automatically to my cheek, a habit I couldn’t seem to break even then. Leaning closer, I ran my finger along where the scars should have been more visible — those lines on my cheek, nose and forehead that I had traced so many times I could map them in my sleep. These marks I’d had since I was a baby were fading now, and barely visible against my skin. A familiar lump formed in my throat, the same one that always showed up whenever I thought about losing them.“You must be so happy,” people would say about the fading, their voices bright with assumed congratulations. The way they said it made my stomach twist. They didn’t understand. These weren’t just scars — they were proof of survival, a testament to a trauma I’d not only endured but transcended. Each mark was evidence of surviving my birth parents’ cruelty, a story I’d finally learned to own after years of wanting to hide it.What I was learning — what anyone facing unexpected change might recognise — was that transformation rarely feels the way we imagine it should. Sometimes I caught myself pressing harder when I touched my face, like I was trying to make sure my scars were still there, still real, still mine.I was only 18 months old when I entered foster care, too young to remember the neglect and abuse that left me with my scars. Their exact cause was a mystery — perhaps cuts, scratches or intentional harm — but they, along with malnourishment and broken bones, were the visible reminders of what landed me in the system and led to my adoption.The author as a child.Growing up in sunny Los Angeles, my perpetual slight tan made the white lines stand out like chalk against a blackboard. In elementary school, children would ask with characteristic bluntness, “What happened to your nose?” I’d mumble something about falling off my bike, a bitter lie but easier than telling the truth. In every school picture, you could see how I’d tilt my head, trying to find an angle where my scars would be a little less visible.Junior high brought new challenges. When I was 12 and attending a school for the arts where appearance seemed to matter more than talent, I developed a complicated relationship with my scars. One afternoon, a girl cornered me at my locker, her head tilted in that peculiar way people have when they’re trying to figure out what’s “wrong” with you.“What happened to your face?” she demanded, curiosity and revulsion mingling in her expression. The familiar lie tumbled out automatically, but each word felt like a betrayal of myself.I often felt that people were judging me, thinking I was damaged in some way because of my scars. I was even accused of not wearing enough makeup to cover them up. I thought I heard hushed whispers from classmates saying I should get them fixed. I felt like these marks would forever define me as broken.Slowly, however, I learned to live with my scars. On days when I felt confident, I didn’t bother concealing them for photos. I realised that while some people judged me immediately, others took the time to learn my story. These friends looked past the surface and saw me for who I really was.There was another girl in my class who had scars similar to mine. She also said she “fell off her bike.” I felt a kinship with her through our unspoken understanding, even though we never talked about our matching marks. We both knew what it was like to carry these stories on our skin.As I started making real friends, I began telling them the truth about my scars bit by bit. Each admission felt like a step toward something real, even if I wasn’t quite brave enough to explain everything yet.I began to realise these scars weren’t just marks on my skin; they were teaching me to recognise authentic connection. The people who looked past them became my closest confidants. Those who couldn’t see beyond them revealed themselves to not be worth my time. The author in middle school.Despite the progress I was making, high school was rough. Every comment about my scars hit hard. Each word landed like a physical blow. I’d spend extra time in the bathroom before class trying different combinations of foundation and concealer, desperately wanting to cover them up.Then one day, someone’s careless words — “You’d be so pretty if it wasn’t for those scars” — were playing on a loop in my head as I stared at my reflection and ran my fingers over the raised lines like I always did. However, this time, angry tears started falling. Gripping the sink until my knuckles turned white, I watched the droplets land on my hands. After so many years of making up excuses and looking away when people stared ... I was done.From that day forward, I told the truth when asked about my scars. I said that I was neglected and abused as an infant and placed in foster care. On first dates, when the inevitable question arose, I’d watch carefully for their reaction. Some would claim they hadn’t noticed, but their eyes would betray them, darting across my face as they tried to hide their curiosity. The hurried, intense intimacy created by my answer often led to awkward silences and no more interest — not because of my scars, but because of the weight of the truth behind them.As I got older, my scars became an integral part of me, like my hair or eye colour. I had always had them. In a world where we could filter our imperfections and create false representations, I was no longer interested in hiding this part of myself. My scars were companions on my journey.The author in Paris in 2023.As a middle-age woman, I navigated a whole new set of contradictions. Society tells us to age “gracefully” — not to care about our looks — while bombarding us with anti-aging creams and ads for injectables. My dating anxiety was thankfully gone, but I still caught people giving me that slightly puzzled look when they first met me. It was subtler now, but it was there — that moment when their eyes traced where my scars used to be more visible, like they were trying to solve a puzzle they couldn’t quite piece together.Now, as my scars have faded with time, I am surprised by a sense of loss. The lines that had made me feel damaged as a child had become a source of strength — a reminder of my resilience. They shaped me but didn’t define me. I learned I was more than my trauma. My scars and I grew together — they were forever a part of my story, but not the whole of who I was.My eyes started to water as I continued to gaze in the gym mirror. The fluorescent lights that used to make my scars stand out like road maps just showed smooth skin with the faintest traces of lines, like old, mostly erased pencil marks. My hands still found them though — muscle memory taking my fingers along those familiar paths I’d traced since I was old enough to understand what made me different.When I look at old photos, I see this little girl smiling back at me, scars and all. She had no idea how much these marks would shape her life, how they’d become both a shield and a bridge. The scars are still there if you know where to look, but now they’re shadows of what they once were. Nobody asks about them anymore. Sometimes I miss that — how my scars ended up helping me connect with people. They were like a shortcut to real conversations, a way to say, “Yeah, I’ve been through some stuff too.” They allowed for mutual empathy and understanding.But watching them fade has taught me something important: We are more than the rough stuff we’ve lived through. Our stories aren’t just written on our skin — they are in everything we do and everything we are.Throwing my gym bag over my shoulder, I took one last look in the mirror. My scars might have faded, but everything they had taught me was still there: how to be real with people, how to spot who was genuine and simply curious, how to share own my story instead of hiding it. Those lessons aren’t going anywhere. They are part of me now and more permanent than any scar.Leslie Vooris is a Los Angeles native turned New York City-based writer and filmmaker. A former foster youth and adoptee, she channels her experiences into her creative work while advocating for children’s rights. She is currently writing a memoir about growing up in the foster care system in the shadows of Hollywood. You can follow her on Instagram @leslieannvooris.Related...I Started To Finally Like My Appearance In My Mid-Thirties – This Is How I Did It'I Finally Told My Sister To Stop Commenting On My Baby's Looks'How Can I Put Myself Out There When I Don't Even Feel Confident?

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