Growing up with alopecia felt like a battle I could never escape.

It was something I tried so desperately to hide — but everyone could tell.

The wigs I wore as a child looked artificial. There was no denying I had one on.

At school, kids teased me. They’d mock the way my hair parted — “Why does your hair grow in a circle like that? Are you wearing a wig?”

All I could manage was a soft “no,” shaking my head.

Because the truth was unbearable.

I couldn’t accept my own diagnosis, let alone let others know.

They’d think I was gross.

They wouldn’t want to be my friend.

They’d hate me.

So, I told myself: My best chance at belonging is if no one ever finds out.

I just wanted to be normal.

I remember one time, a soccer ball was deliberately kicked at my head — an attempt to knock my wig out of place and “prove” their suspicions.

When it happened, I calmly walked to my gym teacher and asked to go to the bathroom. I didn’t look him in the eye — I was too embarrassed. But he knew. He let me go.

I rushed into the stall and fixed my hairline as quickly as I could. Then I walked back into the gym like nothing happened. I didn’t face anyone. I didn’t say a word.

I just kept pretending I was normal. That my hair was real. That I belonged.

There was another time — a cruel game made up at school. The goal was to expose whether the latest rumor about someone was true.

For me, the rumor was that I wore a wig.

The game was this: one person pulled another’s hair until they yelled “ouch!” — the idea being if you didn’t feel it, it must not be real.

I had no choice. I played along. I screamed “ouch!” at what I guessed was the right moment, even though I didn’t feel a thing.

But I knew the truth.

I hadn’t fooled them.

The giggles after the soccer ball, the whispers in the hallway — they knew.

Still, I kept showing up. I kept going to events, hanging out with friends, attending school, doing everything I could to prove that I was “just like everyone else.”

I denied the teasing, denied the questions, prayed someone would change the subject when it came up.

Because if they found out, I would be a freak.

And I just wanted to be accepted. Understood. Liked.

What It Took to Finally Tell Someone

It wasn’t until years later, through therapy, that I started confronting the pain I had pushed down for so long.

Therapy forced me to speak about things I had buried — and in doing so, I started using my voice again.

I became accountable for my own healing.

And healing meant speaking up.

Sometimes that meant having hard conversations with the very people who hurt me.

I found that writing things down helped. There was something therapeutic about putting pen to paper. It gave me clarity — and courage.

When I had to say those words out loud, I read from the page. It kept me grounded. It helped me get through it without freezing up, softening the truth, or losing my train of thought.

Reading from a letter meant I didn’t have to make eye contact. I didn’t have to read their expressions. I just had to get through it — my truth, uninterrupted.

Some people had no words in response but appreciated the honesty.

Others were thankful to understand me better, and respectfully asked for time to process.

That was enough.

Because once I said it — I could breathe again.

And little by little, the things that once triggered me… stopped happening.

And if they did happen again?

I had the right to speak up.

I could say gently, “Hey — that actually hurts me. Can you not do that?”

That’s what healing looks like.

That’s what reclaiming your power feels like.

Learning to Speak Up

Over time, I started saying how I felt more often. I started saying “no” when something didn’t feel right.

I spoke up when I disagreed, voiced my opinions, even chatted with strangers.

And eventually, I found myself sharing about my alopecia — for the first time — with someone new.

It was a hairdresser. I knew they’d figure it out anyway. But instead of hiding, I chose honesty.

What followed blew me away.

They shared stories of other clients with alopecia. They told me about their journeys, what worked for them, how they coped.

I offered my own tips — advice I wish I had known sooner.

And I left the salon inspired. Energized. I imagined another girl hearing those same tips I’d just shared. I imagined her feeling a little more hopeful.

And that’s when it hit me:

My pain, shared honestly, could actually help someone else heal too.

Why I’m Writing This

I still struggle with words.

I still stumble when I speak, still feel guilt for expressing myself.

But this blog has become my safe space.

My outlet.

My voice.

If you’ve read this far — thank you. Truly.

You’ve given me the gift of being heard.

For the recovering hearts,

Jenna

If this story resonates with you or someone you know, I’d love to hear from you. 💌 Drop a comment, share your story, or send a message — let’s create a space where we feel seen. 🫶🏻