![]() ![]() ![]() At 23, I was finally beginning to understand that I alone was responsible for my health. But I was on the precipice of a larger shift in my mindset. That day, I was still too stubborn to admit my relationship with the sun was deeply troubling. I’d grown up surfing, immersed in the culture. I can’t remember what I said back, but I’m sure it was tempered with youthful arrogance. “Your skin can’t handle the amount of sun you’re exposing it to,” he said. I’d been cautious of the sun but I still came back with stark tan lines, my freckled body nowhere near its normal pallor.Īt the end of the appointment, after I’d redressed, he looked at me with sympathy and exasperation. I was 23 and fresh off a three-month trip to Nicaragua where I’d been working as a surf instructor. He held one of my ankles with two hands, squinting closely at a mole on my calf. I was laying fully naked with my back against a cold metal exam table. ![]() “Your ancestors lived in dungeons,” the dermatologist said, without an inkling of humor. ![]()
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