Mia K.
Photography by Bri Nitsberg
If you’re reading this, every part of your story is worth telling.
My answer to why I’m pursuing a career in the mental health field is easy. It’s because I’ve lived it – daily anxiety-induced vomiting spells, countless trials (and errors) of medications, the suffocating feeling that my entire world is aflame despite sitting motionless in my apartment. I’ve been diagnosed with anxiety and depression for as long as I can remember, and, for a while, no one knew.
I slowly learned, though, that admitting to struggle is not weakness – it’s human. And since attending WashU, I made it my mission to spark conversation about mental health, working toward a future where no one has to experience the systemic barriers to quality care that I (and many others) continue to face. For me, that looked like sharing my story.
It just made sense. I am fortunate enough to be a member of a student community that prioritizes mental health, and for the first time, I did not feel entirely isolated in my struggle. Yet, even among my closest friends, I still harbored a secret: the origin of the ever-growing number of scars and scabs sprawled across my body. When asked about them (which, believe me, is more often than one would hope), it was much easier to say I had a ton of mosquito bites or cat scratches than admit that I live with excoriation disorder, otherwise known as skin-picking disorder.
Classified as a branch of OCD, I’ve found this condition to be nearly impossible to control. Every scratch, cut, or bump on my skin becomes my next irresistible mission – a mission not even gloves, a rubber band around my wrist, or the looming threat of skin infections can deter. I wish I could say this was just a “bad habit” that I could easily shake with a small amount of restraint. Rather, it’s compulsive… all-consuming.
I have lived in embarrassment of my skin picking for most of my life. My outfits are often dictated by what can best conceal my current scabs, and I spent my teenage years trying to hide the sheer volume of Band-Aids I would use on a weekly basis.
This is genuinely the first time I have ever put this in writing. While I’m terrified, I feel oddly liberated. This condition has been and continues to be the most challenging part of my mental health journey, and I have always been deeply frustrated with myself that I could not share it as easily as the rest of my story.
Sometimes, you can see mental health, and to admit that in the context of myself was intimidating. I’ve realized, though, that I am the author of my own narrative. My story is imperfect, but that makes it beautiful – not humiliating. It is my choice to share this vulnerable part of myself with the world, and it is yours, too. But never let yourself believe that any part of your story deserves to remain hidden.
When I look in the mirror, I see a body with scars. But now, I also see a budding researcher pursuing the career of her dreams. A friend known for her distinctive laugh and steadfast advice. An enthusiast of all things creative. My scars will remain with me forever, but they have evolved from shameful blemishes into a representation of what I’ve gone through – what I’ve grown through.
I am starting IfYoureReadingThis at WashU for the stories like my own that have been otherwise left unsaid. In publishing these letters, I encourage our community to recognize that their voices deserve to be heard and that they are not alone. Share your struggles, your triumphs, your lessons learned, your words of encouragement. Every part of your story matters, and there is someone on this campus who wants to hear it.
Mia K., Washington University in St. Louis
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