The very first time I remember it, I was small enough that I didn’t have any real language for what was happening.
I just knew my skin could turn on me.
It would start as a faint itch — the kind you try to ignore because you don’t want to make a fuss. Then I’d get warm, and everything would change. The heat didn’t feel cosy. It made the itch louder. Like my skin was suddenly too awake, too sensitive, too much.
I’d wriggle in my clothes. I’d rub my arms against the couch. I’d press myself against anything cool. Once, I got caught with a hairbrush, dragging it gently over the itchy spots because my fingers weren’t enough. When someone walked in, I froze — hairbrush in hand — like I’d done something wrong.
But I wasn’t being naughty. I was trying to feel comfortable. Mum would notice and come straight in.
She didn’t panic in front of me. She just moved into “helping mode” — calm voice, quick hands, like she’d done it a hundred times. She’d guide me to the bathroom and run a bath, because the bath was always the first place we went when my skin felt like that.
But it couldn’t be warm.
We were told to keep it cooler, because heat made everything louder — and the cooler water helped calm things down. Mum would test the water with her wrist, adjust it, test it again — making it cooler than you’d expect for a child’s bath, but just right for me. Not icy. Just cool enough to feel more comfortable.
Then came the additives.
She’d pour them in carefully, like they were special — like they might be the answer. But they smelled awful. Thick and tar-like, a heavy smell that filled the bathroom and clung to you. I remember thinking even then: Why does the stuff that’s meant to help have to smell like that?
Still, for a minute, it worked.
When I slid into the bath, my whole body would soften. The itch would quieten — not disappear, but settle, like a buzzing feeling finally turning down. I’d float there and breathe, and for a little while I could forget about my skin.
And then the bath would end. Time to get out. Time for the towel.
That was always the turning point. The towel felt rougher than it should have. The air felt sharp. And as soon as I warmed up again, the itch would follow — like it had been waiting.
Mum would already be reaching for the ointments.
They were sticky and heavy and slow to sink in. They left me shiny and tacky. My pyjamas would cling, the sheets would stick, and the smell would follow me into bed. Mum would warm the ointment between her hands first, then smooth it on with patient, careful strokes, trying to keep the calm going as long as she could.
But I’d lie there thinking the same thing every time:
Why does help have to feel like this? Why can’t comfort feel… comfortable?
Teenage Years:
The Search for Comfort I remember being a teenager in doctor’s offices, sitting quietly while adults talked around me, and my eyes would drift to the machines on the wall. They looked so official and certain — and I’d wonder, could that help? Could that be the thing that finally makes me feel comfortable?
It wasn’t anger, and it wasn’t drama. It was just the constant effort of living in skin that didn’t always feel settled — and the simple wish that it could feel easier.
I noticed it most at friends’ houses. I’d watch them get ready without thinking twice — a quick shower, a simple routine, a few products — and I’d feel this gentle longing, not jealousy. Just a quiet thought: that must be such a nice feeling.
Somewhere in those years, that search turned into direction. I wanted to understand care from the inside — not just the products, but the people behind them — so I became a nurse. And nursing taught me something I still hold close: comfort isn’t small. Comfort is care. It’s cool water, fresh clothes, gentle routines, and the moment someone finally exhales.
That’s the thread that runs through my story — always coming back to the same thing: where is the comfort, and how do we create more of it?
