Growing up in a quaint coastal town in California that few people know, I was just five minutes from the beach, surrounded by sun and a mild temperature averaging 62 degrees. While my friends lathered on sunscreen, relaxed on beach towels, and tanned under the warm sun, I found myself on the sidelines, unable to join in. The truth is, I have albinism.
For me, this meant that tanning was impossible and my vision was significantly impaired. Without my glasses, I struggled with 20/400 eyesight—twenty times worse than typical vision. Even with corrective lenses, I had difficulty reading street signs unless I was almost right in front of them, and the subtitles on anything other than a movie screen were often lost on me. My relationship with the sun? Let’s just say it was a complicated one.
Looking back, I realize that growing up with albinism was not an easy journey. Kids can be unkind, and I was often the target of teasing. I heard hurtful nicknames like “Marshmallow” and “Coconut,” which, while silly, stung nonetheless. I frequently had to sit at the front of the class and request printed copies of any visual materials because I couldn’t see well enough to read them. It wasn’t exactly painful, but it certainly wasn’t a walk in the park.
However, as I reflect now, I see that my albinism was a peculiar blessing. It turns out that being different didn’t set me apart in a negative way; it made me memorable. People remember the pale girl from school, and even years later, old teachers recognize me when I visit my hometown. They may forget my name, but they remember my kindness and good nature. My sister often hears from former classmates about how they remember me—not as someone different, but as someone who stood out.
In a world full of tanned faces, albinos like me are a rarity—about 1 in 17,000. That means if you meet one of us, you’re likely to remember the encounter. And while many may wonder why I don’t just try to get a tan during the summer, the truth is, that’s not what truly matters. It’s the memories we create that count.
What’s even better? You, too, are memorable. Maybe you were a unique personality in a sea of common names or had a distinctive feature like a birthmark or striking eyes. Those traits that set you apart are what make you special. I want my children to understand that being memorable is a gift. Standing out means being noticed for all the right reasons, and I’ve learned to embrace that.
And let’s face it: one of the perks of being albino? I never have to worry about tan lines!
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In summary, my journey with albinism has taught me the importance of embracing what makes us unique. Rather than feeling different, I’ve learned to celebrate being memorable, and that’s a lesson I want to pass on to the next generation.