For many years, my face spoke instead of me. People saw what appeared at first glance, but they never saw what I was living through inside. My nose, which changed over the years and became foreign on my own body, turned into the silent witness of my story.
I learned to walk through the streets, feeling every stare, every whisper, and every silence. Yet that same face taught me patience, self-discovery, and resilience. This is not a story about illness, but about a human being. It is a story of fear, shame, acceptance, and finally, freedom. This is my story—how I lived for years in the shadow of my own face, until I understood that my true face lives inside me.
I always remember the day I first realized that I was no longer like everyone else. It did not happen suddenly; it unfolded slowly over time. At first, it was a small change that I did not pay much attention to. A little pain, a little swelling that seemed temporary.
I worked, I lived a normal life, and I believed that everything would pass. But days turned into months, and months turned into years. The person looking back at me in the mirror was gradually changing, and I could not keep up with accepting that transformation. My nose became the first thing people noticed—long, heavy, and distorted.
Sometimes it hurt, and sometimes it simply reminded me of its presence in silence. I learned to walk with my head down so fewer people would see my face. I learned to sit in corners, to stay quiet in public places, and to avoid smiling. A smile attracted attention, and attention was the one thing I did not want. Children were the cruelest. They did not pretend or hide their surprise; they stared, pointed, and asked their parents questions. Parents either rushed them away or pretended they had noticed nothing.
In those moments, I wanted to disappear. Adults were quieter, but no less heavy. In their eyes, I saw pity, disgust, and sometimes judgment. I kept asking myself, why me?
What mistake had I made for my body to become my enemy? Doctors’ offices became my second home. White walls, cold light, and serious faces. Diagnoses that were hard to understand, yet easy to feel in their weight. Treatment, waiting, and another disappointment.
Some days, it felt like there was hope. On other days, that hope collapsed like a house made of sand. The hardest part was not the physical pain, but the psychological one. I began to avoid people. I lost friends, changed jobs, and closed myself off inside. At home, I covered the mirror so I would not have to see myself. Yet even without the mirror, I could feel my face. It was with me every second.
One day, as I sat once again in a doctor’s office, he looked at me not as a case, but as a person. That look changed everything. He told me that I had the right to live, not to hide. That my face was a story, not a sentence. I cried in front of a doctor for the first time—not from pain, but from relief. From that day on, I began to change slowly from within. I learned to walk outside with my head held high.
Bilkul, is aakhri part ko bhi saaf-suthra aur fresh kar diya hai. Ab ye poori story ka end hissa hai:
I learned to look people in the eyes. Some still looked at me the same way, but it no longer broke me. I understood that the shame was not mine. The shame belongs to a society that measures a person by appearance.
Over time, I began to tell my story—first to one person, then to a few more. I discovered that many people carry their own invisible “nose,” their own pain, and their own burden. Mine was simply visible. I still cannot say that everything is over. The treatment continues, and the road is still long.
But I am no longer hiding. I am living. Living with my face, my story, and my strength. And if today someone looks at me with surprise, I no longer run from that gaze. I know who I am. And that is enough.