Living with Alopecia Areata: How Hair Loss Shaped Me

When It Started & Childhood

When I was three years old, I started losing my hair. By the time I was six, I was completely bald. At that age, I didn’t have the words to describe what was happening to me—only that I looked different, and that difference seemed to matter a lot to the world around me.

Growing up and living with alopecia meant constantly navigating how others saw me—and how I saw myself. I remember the way people’s eyes would linger a little too long, or how kids would whisper or ask questions that cut deeper than they intended. It wasn’t always the words themselves, but the feeling of being seen for what I lacked rather than who I was. Those moments planted seeds of shame and self-consciousness that I unknowingly (because how would any child register this) carried for years.

There were days I wished I could just blend in, have a “normal” childhood where my appearance wasn’t the first or most memorable thing about me and other days that I felt “special” for being different. Such as moments I got to speak in front of my school about Alopecia, however these moments did not outweigh the anxiety that was growing. I never felt connected to wigs despite the anxiety of being different—they often made me feel even more disconnected from myself. And underneath it all, I was carrying grief (that I didn’t even realize at the time). Not just for the hair I lost, but for the version of myself I thought I was supposed to be—based on my peers, the media, and what I thought it meant to be “beautiful.”

High School Years

By the time I reached high school, those early experiences had quietly shaped how I moved through the world. I became hyper-aware of how I stood out. I often felt like the “weird bald girl”—someone people noticed, but not necessarily someone they wanted to know.

I watched friend groups form around me while I lingered on the outside, always friendly but never fully belonging. I had a few close friends, but I never had that big circle or social confidence that many teenagers seemed to carry so effortlessly. I remember walking through the halls and feeling invisible and deeply exposed at the same time.

I spent a lot of my high school years in my head, observing others and quietly trying to make sense of why my experience felt so different. Looking back, I realize that those years planted the earliest seeds of my empathy—the ability to deeply understand what it means to feel left out, unseen, or “different.” But at the time, it mostly felt lonely.

I wish I could say I had a magical moment of self-acceptance back then, but I didn’t. Instead, I spent those years trying to make sense of who I was in a world that seemed to define worth by appearance. Yet even in that loneliness, there was a tiny voice inside me that believed I was meant for more—that somehow, there was a reason I was given this type of pain.

Turning Point

My first turning point came in high school, even though those were some of my lowest years in terms of self-esteem. Deep down, I knew that my experience would help me support others who felt different.

That sense of purpose grew stronger over time. I realized that the very thing that made me feel different—alopecia—was also shaping me into someone deeply empathetic. This is how I knew at a pretty young age I wanted to pursue a career in mental health. It was at this time I also started sharing about my Alopecia journey online (event hough I was deeply scared of anyone from school finding these videos).

Years later, when I entered the field, that decision made perfect sense. I found purpose through helping others who felt the same sense of otherness that had once consumed me. When I became a therapist, I noticed how many clients shared that same pain of feeling different and how validating it was for my clients to have a visibly different therapist in the room with them—whether from hair loss, chronic illness, identity, neurodivergence or other invisible struggles.

Alopecia taught me that purpose doesn’t erase pain. I still have hard days. I still experience moments where I wish I could slip by unnoticed, where I feel the sting of a stranger’s stare or the ache of remembering what it was like to want hair so badly. But I’ve learned that healing isn’t about pretending those moments don’t exist. It’s about creating a life that feels bigger than them.

What Alopecia Taught Me

Living with alopecia has shown me what it means to be fully human—to be both soft and strong, visible and unseen, broken and whole. It’s taught me empathy, resilience, and the power of authenticity. I wouldn’t have chosen this path, but I can see now how it shaped me into someone who can hold space for others in ways I never could have otherwise.

I’ve learned that self-acceptance isn’t a single moment; it’s an ongoing process. There are still days I feel the weight of old insecurities, but there are also countless moments of pride, freedom, and connection. I no longer hide behind wigs or apologies. I’ve stopped trying to earn belonging by pretending to be someone I’m not.

Today

Today, my bald head isn’t something I hide. It’s a part of me—a story, a symbol, and a reminder that beauty and worth have nothing to do with hair. My purpose grew out of what I once thought was my biggest loss. And in learning to embrace it, I found something far more lasting than hair: I found peace.

If you’re searching for support from someone who deeply understands the experience of being different, I am current accepting therapy clients in New York and hair loss coaching clients Worldwide. You can schedule a free consultation call together here