In 2007, I made a life-altering decision to stop putting my health at risk. It was an incredibly quick choice—just a phone call, a few minutes of conversation, and the stroke of a blue pen to schedule an appointment. Looking back, it’s mind-boggling how effortlessly I let go of a habit that consumed nearly 20 years of my life. While people agonize over choices like which car to buy or the latest hairstyle trends, I switched off my tanning obsession in no time, just like turning off the faucet in my kitchen.
As a child of the Teen magazine and Tiger Beat era, I was drawn to the allure of beauty trends: electric blue mascara, tight-rolled jeans, and, of course, the coveted tan. Unfortunately, my fair skin and red-blonde hair were far from the bronzed look I so desperately craved. Starting around age 12, every spring and summer, I would drag my folding lawn chair, baby oil, and radio outside, scanning for the sunniest spot. I’d lie on that sticky plastic chair, dutifully turning like a roast every half hour, convinced that my patience would eventually yield a golden glow.
Instead, I often ended up red and burnt. Friends told me, “Don’t worry, the red turns to tan,” but for me, the redness was just a painful precursor to disappointment. Little did I realize I was training my skin to endure more damage. My quest for that perfect tan drove me to try various products, from baby oil to Hawaiian Tropic lotion, but nothing ever satisfied my longing for a bronzed complexion.
After graduating in 1992, I began to frequent tanning beds, encouraged by friends who swore by them. Despite hearing warnings about the dangers of indoor tanning, my desire for a sun-kissed look overwhelmed my caution. By age 18, I was lying in a tanning bed multiple times a week, reveling in the heat and the smell of tanning accelerators. I became addicted, savoring each session as if it were a guilty pleasure.
Fast forward to 2007, and my skin had developed permanent tan lines, a testament to my dedication. Even after the births of my children, I remained committed to my tanning routine, blissfully ignoring the damage I was inflicting on my skin. That is, until one fateful day when my childhood friend, Sarah, noticed a dark mole on my arm and urged me to get it checked.
A week later, I received the devastating news: the mole was melanoma. This revelation led to surgery and a series of skin checks that introduced me to the world of basal cell carcinomas. I had four surgeries since then and now apply Efudex, a topical chemotherapy for precancers, to my chest regularly. The treatments are a constant reminder of my past mistakes—tanning beds may have offered temporary satisfaction, but they came at a great cost.
My story is sobering, yet it pales in comparison to others facing far graver battles. While I count myself lucky to be here, the scars on my body tell a tale of vanity and ignorance. I now prioritize my children’s skin health, ensuring they are covered in sunscreen every summer. I’ve traded my once-tanned skin for a pale complexion, but I appreciate being alive and healthy.
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Summary
In my journey from tanning bed addict to skin cancer survivor, I’ve learned the importance of prioritizing health over vanity. The dangers of tanning are real, and my experiences serve as a cautionary tale. I now protect my family’s skin as fiercely as I once sought a tan, embracing a life of health instead of a fleeting glow.