How I Came to Accept My Atopic Dermatitis

My eczema doesn’t just show up on my skin—it reflects what’s going on beneath it.

One of my earliest memories is sitting on the edge of my mom’s bed, crying as she gently rubbed lotion onto the itchy, stinging rash behind my knees. I was five. And that was the moment I realized that something as “small” as a skin condition could make everyday life feel a lot harder.

Atopic dermatitis (AD)—the most common form of eczema—is a chronic skin condition marked by dryness, itchiness, and inflammation. It also happens to be something I’ve lived with for most of my life. 

And while the physical symptoms are frustrating enough, the mental toll can be just as difficult.

When Your Skin Makes You Self-Conscious

At 5 years old, you don’t expect to think much about the backs of your knees. But for me, AD made it painful to do simple things, like sitting cross-legged at story time, climbing the jungle gym, or wearing long pants. Shorts and skirts were more comfortable, sure, but came with their own challenge: I didn’t want anyone to see my skin.

As I got older, the flare-ups didn’t disappear—they just relocated. By high school, the patches behind my knees had mostly faded, but new ones showed up on my neck, and the crooks of my elbows. Two highly visible areas. Two sources of daily discomfort and constant self-consciousness.

I’m not alone in my embarrassment. I spoke to two dermatologists—Amy Huang with Medical Offices of Manhattan, and Asmi Berry with BHSkin—both share that their patients often feel embarrassed and ashamed about their eczema.

“Many of my patients complain that their visible eczema plaques are very embarrassing in social situations, which can lead to social isolation,” Huang explains.  

“There’s also a sense of isolation when they feel misunderstood or judged by others,” says Berry. Judged is a good descriptor of how I felt. Because my AD was so visible, I’d often get advice from well-meaning friends, family members, and acquaintances. Just try aqueous cream. Just don’t use scented soaps. Just drink more water.

That little word—just—always felt so laden with judgment, like the solution was obvious and I just didn’t have the knowledge or wherewithal to carry it through. Just do this thing, as if I was silly not to do it, as if I could easily stop my suffering if I wanted to.

When Stress and Skin Flare Up Together

In my early 20s, I kept waiting for my AD to magically disappear. Instead, it got worse.

Sometimes, the burning and itching were so severe that I couldn’t sleep. Wearing collared shirts became impossible. Even working out was tough—sweat made everything sting, and applying medicated ointments felt like lighting my skin on fire.

Still, the advice came. “Just take omega-3s.” “Just cut out sugar.” “Just stress less.”

Ah yes. That one again.

More than one doctor told me my flare-ups were stress-related. By that point, I’d already noticed the connection. My AD flared up right alongside my anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Big life changes, bouts of illness, family emergencies—they all showed up on my skin.

“Stress induces the release of cortisol and other pro-inflammatory signaling molecules, and hormones in the body, which can trigger eczema flare-ups,” says Huang.

Berry explains that this can disrupt your skin’s barrier function and immune response. “For someone with atopic dermatitis, this can directly lead to increased inflammation, itching, and flare-ups, creating a challenging cycle between emotional stress and skin symptoms,” she explains.

And it’s not just fleeting stress that it causes: skin conditions affect mental health. A 2019 study, which included 526,808 adults with eczema, found that people who had eczema had a greater risk of developing anxiety and depression. Additionally, a 2024 review found that eczema can contribute to depression and suicidality.

A 2023 analysis, which surveyed 11,181 children, found that sleep could be partly responsible for the link between eczema and poor mental health. “The lack of sleep due to chronic itching can lead to increased daytime sleepiness,” Huang says. This sleeplessness could also affect mental wellness.

My doctor’s solution was to just stress less. The problem? “Just don’t stress” is not medical advice. 

I was already tired of PTSD’s debilitating effect on my life. It affected my career, my education, my friendships—why did it also have to affect my skin, of all things? Dealing with stress and mental illness is hard enough on its own. Adding an uncomfortable, sometimes painful rash into the mix felt unfair. 

Breaking the Cycle

The turning point came at 24, during a particularly difficult week. I was burned out, grieving, and struggling to sleep through the night. One early morning, I found myself crying on the porch—exhausted, overwhelmed—and felt an itch in my neck. Again, my AD was flaring up.  

That moment didn’t feel like a grand epiphany. But it was the moment I felt truly fed up with my situation. I knew I couldn’t “fix” everything, but I could try to make myself a little more comfortable.

So I went back to the basics.

The treatments that worked temporarily? I used them as often as possible. Every night, I took oat baths to soothe my skin. I then applied cortisone cream, sitting in front of a fan so that it’d sting less.  

I took doxylamine, a strong over-the-counter sleep aid that also happens to be an antihistamine. Not only did it make me sleepy, it also slightly reduced the itching. 

And since I was at a breaking point, I temporarily stopped caring about what others thought. I was in so much pain that I couldn’t care less. I ignored well-meaning “just try this” advice and started wearing huge dressings on my neck in public. I also stopped covering my AD with scarves, which just irritated my skin further.

Lastly, I stopped going to doctors who were unsympathetic or dismissive of my AD. I’ll never forget the kind, thoughtful look on my current doctor’s face during our first appointment. She didn’t tell me to just stress less but helped me figure out actionable ways I could take care of myself.  

These changes were tedious and time-consuming—and of course, none of it fully cured my eczema. But it helped. And more importantly, it made me feel like I had a little more control over my own care. 

Reframing My Eczema as a Signal

Today, my eczema still flares up when I’m sick or stressed. As I write this, I’m recovering from a stomach bug, and I have patches of AD in my neck and on my eyelids. 

But I’ve started to think of my AD differently.

When I’m burning out, depressed, or overwhelmed, I may be able to convince the world that I’m “fine.” But my skin tells a different story. It’s a physical reminder that stress affects more than just our thoughts and moods—it affects our entire bodies.

Sometimes, I still get frustrated. AD can be painful. It can be embarrassing. It can make daily life harder in small but meaningful ways.

But it’s also given me a direct line to my inner world. When my mind is struggling but I’m pretending I’m fine, my skin tells the truth. And for that, I’m learning to listen. 

Bottom Line

Throughout my experience, it helped me to remember that I’m not alone. Huang and Berry both strongly suggest looking for support groups, as connecting with others who have AD can help you feel less isolated. 

“Many people experience exactly what you’re feeling right now. Connecting with others who truly understand your struggles can make a huge difference,” Berry says. “Sharing your experience can help ease the burden and empower you in managing both your skin and your emotional well-being.”

Instead, I’m learning to meet it with care. My eczema may never go away entirely. But I’ve stopped seeing it as something to hide, and started seeing it as a reminder: my mental health matters, and my body always keeps the score.