When people first meet me and see that I am a bald woman, they’re often surprised to learn that I lost all my hair back in first grade. Surprisingly, though, the loss didn’t truly hit me until high school. In elementary school, when I first experienced hair loss, I found an unexpected outlet: public speaking. Encouraged by one of the most influential teachers I’ve ever had, I began speaking at our school’s Locks of Love assembly, where students donate hair to help others.
At that age, people saw a bubbly, carefree girl who seemed to embrace her hair loss with confidence. I still hear from adults how impressed they were with my speeches, and honestly, I’m impressed with myself too for standing up there at such a young age. But inside, I hadn’t yet fully grieved what I had lost. The saying “fake it until you make it” perfectly describes the start of my hair journey. I put on a brave face, but behind that smile were challenges I had yet to face.
Before my hair loss became my central focus, I was already deeply immersed in competitive gymnastics. By the end of elementary school, I was training sometimes twice a day—6 a.m. before school and again in the afternoon. Gymnastics is a sport where every body is scrutinized, where young girls are constantly told to be skinnier or stronger. That intense focus on my body ironically shielded me from fully processing my hair loss. I had reminders—like not being able to wear the matching scrunchies or ribbons with my teammates—but the sport consumed me so completely that I pushed those feelings aside.
As I moved up the levels, my life became almost entirely centered on gymnastics. I even switched to homeschooling in middle school so I could train more hours—a schedule I jokingly call “gym-schooling.” My mornings began at 8 a.m. and didn’t end until 5:30 p.m., split between training, school, and barely any breaks. My whole world revolved around the gym. By the time I graduated middle school, I was exhausted, burned out, and had lost much of the joy I once had for gymnastics. Returning to a traditional high school seemed like the right move, but it was a decision that came with its own emotional challenges.
By the end of my freshman year of high school, the pressure and expectations became unbearable. I vividly remember sitting in the car on the way to practice, eating dinner as I always did, hoping I would get sick so I wouldn’t have to go. Overwhelmed, I finally told my mom through tears, “I need to quit gymnastics.” She was shocked but supportive, telling me to do what was best for me. Quitting meant disappointing almost everyone in my life. I was known as “the gymnast,” the girl rumored to be training for the Olympics (which wasn’t true), the one on track for a Division 1 scholarship. But I knew staying would only make me miserable.
Once I quit, my world fell apart. My parents were disappointed but supportive, I lost friends who only valued me for my athletic identity, and I felt like I had lost a core part of myself. One of the most hurtful moments was a “friend” at a pool party asking, “Why would you ever quit something you’re good at?” After that, those friends never invited me anywhere again. I also struggled with self-disappointment, wishing I could have continued, but I had given the sport everything and had suffered in silence for too long.
Sophomore year of high school was one of the toughest periods of my life. Without gymnastics, I felt like I had no identity beyond being “the bald girl.” I had few friends and felt misunderstood, isolated, and invisible. Yet, amid the confusion, a thought began to take shape: maybe my purpose was to help others like me. I realized I could share my story with people struggling with Alopecia—the same feelings of isolation, the fear of never being seen as beautiful, the anxious glances in public. Without gymnastics to distract me, I finally had to confront my hair loss head-on, even as my body adjusted to training far less than before.
Looking in the mirror was painful; I didn’t like what I saw from head to toe. I needed an outlet to express my struggles, so I created a YouTube channel to talk about my experiences with Alopecia. At first, I only confided in a few friends, terrified of bullying or judgment, and eventually stopped for many years. But by my sophomore year of college, I had another pivotal moment. Feeling lost after my first breakup, I remembered my old goal of sharing my story. That first subscriber from high school had lit a spark inside me—I realized that even reaching one person was worth it. That realization became the fuel I needed to restart my channel.
This time, I posted proudly, openly, and consistently. I no longer feared judgment or ridicule. Through my videos, I found confidence and a sense of purpose. Alopecia, once my greatest source of insecurity, became a platform to empower others. Though I still experience moments of doubt or feel the sting of stares in public, I embrace my uniqueness. Confidence is never a destination—it’s a journey, a daily practice. Through my work, I hope to challenge beauty standards and reshape how society sees bald women.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned through all of this, it’s that we can transform hardship into opportunity. Even when storms feel overwhelming, there’s always something better on the other side. I urge everyone to believe in themselves, dream boldly, and embrace their uniqueness. The more I believed in myself, the more doors opened, and the more I realized that our struggles can truly become our superpowers.
