Photos, Fear, and Regrets
It's Rosacea Awareness Month and I'm trying to reminisce on 20 years of missing memories
April is Rosacea Awareness Month and, as always, I have been beavering away creating tons of content to share over the next few weeks. With RosaceaCon preparations on top of that, it’s been a lot! But I’m really excited to share everything with you. Make sure you’re following me on instagram and are subscribed to Rosacea Club so you don’t miss anything!
If you would like to read my recent rosacea-related posts, you can find them all HERE.
2025 marks 20 years since my rosacea diagnosis. That is half my life. I’ve now had rosacea for longer than I was conscious of my face without it.
As I am looking back on two decades of rosacea, I was going to use this article to share some photos of my skin over the past 20 years. But from the age of 20 to 28, I policed photos of myself so aggressively that those photos are few and far between.
Anyone younger than me may not remember the glory days of Facebook and how it worked. Let me explain. On a night out, people would take out digital cameras and the next morning they would upload the images to Facebook albums, each containing ~100 images. No editing, no discernible selection process, just a messy dump of pictures. Each featured person would then be manually tagged in each photo, which meant that they would then immediately appear on your Facebook wall. Horrifyingly, this made them instantly visible to every single one of your friends.
‘James has tagged you in 61 photos. View album?’
It’s hard to explain the cold dread I felt when I saw that notification.
The mobile app didn’t exist yet, so I would hunch at my enormous computer, manually untagging myself from any photos of which I didn’t approve (which was a lot). I would scan for any hint of redness on my face. Any weird angles I didn’t like. Any perceived flaw that I wanted banished from my feed.
If a photo was particularly egregious, I would feverishly message my friend asking them to remove the photo completely. This was a regular morning-after-the-night-before activity.
At a time when my skin felt completely out of control, this behaviour felt like taking back some power. It felt like my only way to feel normal and I always felt relieved after doing it.
But looking back on it now, I just feel sad. I have so few photos of special occasions, nights out, group shots with friends and loved ones.
I became the photographer of my friendship group, the one who coralled everyone together for group shots and meticulously chronicled our fun nights out, house parties, and games nights. I took on this role partially so I could be the one behind the camera instead of in front of it, but mainly so that I could have the final say in which of those photos saw the light of day.
As I am writing this I feel so sad about younger Lex feeling that way but, if I’m honest, my aversion to having my photo taken persists to this day. I have thousands of close-up photos of my bare skin in HD, I’ve documented almost every flare up I’ve had over the past 12 years and shared them with thousands of people online. But my avoidance of candid photos remains.
I have spent 20 years of my life spent avoiding cameras. That’s 20 years of memories that are fading and becoming more out of reach by the day. 20 long years of scrutinising and judging myself more harshly than anyone else ever would.
Later this month I turn 41 and, for some reason, that feels much bigger than turning 40. It feels more grown up, more definitive, more clarifying. I refuse to spend the next 20 years sabotaging my own memories and those of the people around me.
I am making a decision to be more present, to not shy away from cameras, to not duck my head and hide behind my hair. To grab onto my friends and smile when I see a phone pointed at me, to not pull a stupid face to ‘distract’, and to resist the urge to ask to see the photos.
I want to see those photos for what they are: a moment in time, one that I’ll look back on and be happy I was there. Photos don’t exist to showcase perfect skin I don’t possess; they’re there to show that I lived, that I loved and was loved.
Rosacea Awareness Month is always a lot, both physically and mentally, and for the second year in a row I am not taking on any paid work during RAM so I can focus on my own content.
I know I say this a lot, but likes and comments, saves and shares really are so important when you’re reading online content. They let me know that you’re right here with me, that you’re listening, and that you appreciate the work I’m doing. But those little button clicks also signal to the algorithm that the writing I’m putting out is useful and interesting, which means it’s then more likely to reach others who might need it.
The absolute best way to support me is with a paid subscription (and for the whole of April I’m offering a 10% dicount on annual subscriptions - that works out at 95 pence a week!!) but, if you’re not able to do that, simply interacting with my posts is a free, easy, and impactful way to support the work that I do.
Thank you.
More from Rosacea Club:
This makes me feel so sad and yet so encouraged too. Not so much for me ( although I recognise myself as the “group photographer”, taking many photos but appearing in so few ) but maybe for my daughter and grandaughter. All credit to you Lex. 🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡
I can't imagine ever being in a photo with my daughter again due to the state of my skin - this makes me incredibly sad. I'm relatively new to rosacea (had it for around 1.5 years now) so maybe things will change in terms of my skin or my way of thinking, but I still feel robbed of the freedom to live.