Giselle's Story Living with Vitiligo

I was diagnosed with vitiligo at the age of fourteen, and I recently turned seventeen. Before that, I never had any signs of vitiligo, but going into my freshman year of high school, everything changed. Vitiligo is an autoimmune disease where the body’s immune system mistakenly attacks melanocytes, the cells that produce melanin. This causes white patches to appear on the skin, often on the face, hands, or other parts of the body, and it can also lead to premature graying or whitening of hair.

Some of the earliest signs of my vitiligo appeared while I was a competitive dancer. When I would put on my costume or change out of my uniform, people began to question the white spots under my arms. Some asked if I had missed a spot while spray tanning, and others wondered why I had white hairs growing on my head at such a young age. I laughed off the comments, but I started to realize that my spots were now visible. I couldn’t hide them anymore. As a young teen, this was extremely challenging. I already had insecurities shaped by my sport and social media, and now vitiligo was another thing added to the list.

Vitiligo wasn’t completely unfamiliar to me. Before I was born, my mom was diagnosed with it. Growing up, I noticed that she had lost pigmentation, but I never really understood what it meant or how it affected her. I never questioned why she avoided the sun or wore long sleeves even when it was hot outside. Honestly, I didn’t really care. All I knew was that she was my beautiful mom who loved me so much. But when I developed vitiligo myself, I didn’t see myself in that same way. I didn’t feel like a normal girl anymore.

One of the biggest triggers for my vitiligo is the sun. When my friends want to swim or spend long days outside during the summer, I get scared. Other times, if I do go out, I have to deal with the aftermath of red, irritated skin and spreading white patches. It’s hard to accept that something as simple as hanging out with friends can have consequences like that. Emotional stress has also played a role. Stress can affect the immune system, and since vitiligo is autoimmune, it can cause flare-ups or make the condition spread.

Trying to find a medication that worked for me felt like a nightmare. All I wanted was for the white spots to go away. Dermatologist visits became exhausting, and emotionally, I reached a breaking point. My insecurities became so overwhelming that I decided to dye my hair. Watching my hair slowly turn white at such a young age scared me, and I thought changing it might help me feel more like myself again.

While I was at the hair salon, my hairstylist, who has known me since I was born, asked why I wanted to dye my hair. I told her it was because I had the same condition as my mom, and my hair was turning white. She chuckled and told me something I wasn’t expecting. She said coloring my hair wasn’t going to change anything, that I would still be me, with my spots and my white hairs. She told me she didn’t see me any differently at all. To her, I was still the same little girl she first met in a stroller, or the “girl with the book” who would sit and read while my mom got her hair done. At that moment, something clicked. I realized I wasn’t any different. Nobody cared the way I thought they did. Most of the fear and shame I carried was something I had created in my own head.

When summer rolled around, I decided that vitiligo wasn’t going to be the end of my life or my happiness. I learned that there are alternative ways to still enjoy life while protecting my skin. Shorts and tank tops didn’t disappear from my closet, but I became more mindful about the time of day I went outside and how I cared for my skin. Once I accepted that, I found hope.

With that hope came research. I learned how deeply vitiligo can affect mental health and how important it is to have support. Finding people who understood me, whether it was friends, family, or a broader community like Made a Masterpiece, everyone made me feel less alone. Through learning, reaching out, and connecting with others, I slowly began to love myself again.

Looking back at my freshman-year self, I wish I could say I accepted myself right away, but the truth is I’m still in the process. And I think that’s the beautiful part. This journey isn’t linear. Some days are good, some are hard, but in the end, you are still exactly who God intended you to be. You are just as beautiful as everyone else.