My name is Marika, and I am—well—visually different.
No one knew about my condition until the moment I was born. My body is covered in countless birthmarks, large and small, scattered endlessly across my skin. I have a rare pigment disorder called Congenital Melanocytic Nevus, a condition that occurs in only 1 in 500,000 babies.
And I am one of them.
At the time, doctors couldn’t tell my parents very much about what my future would look like. What they did know was frightening. They warned my parents that there was a fifty percent chance I wouldn’t survive. I can only imagine how terrified, overwhelmed, and heartbroken they must have felt—scared for the life of their newborn, unsure of what tomorrow would bring.
Even today, they don’t like to talk much about my first weeks and months. Now that I’m a mother myself, I understand that fear on a whole different level. You worry endlessly about your child, about every breath, every small sign. After one year and seven extremely risky skin graft surgeries, my parents finally knew something for sure: I was born to be a fighter.
Up until I started school, I never felt strange or out of place. I grew up happy and secure, surrounded by loving parents, family, and friends who supported me completely. Sometimes children or adults would ask about my skin, but only out of genuine curiosity. They had simply never seen anything like it before. It never made me feel ashamed or uncomfortable. I didn’t fully understand why my skin was sprinkled with thousands of brown marks, but I accepted them as part of who I was. They were just… me. And no one really judged. Not even myself.
That changed once I started school and kids got older. With age came that unspoken pressure to fit in—the need to look the same, act the same, and belong. Suddenly, I didn’t fit anymore. I was used to making friends easily, being open-minded, friendly, and kind. But when I tried joining conversations or approaching other kids, I started getting those looks—the kind you recognize from high school movies. The look reserved for the outsider. Except this time, it came from first graders, staring at me with pure disgust. The message was loud and painfully clear.
Not long after, the name-calling began. They mocked me, kept their distance, and made sure I knew I wasn’t welcome. Even though it hurt deeply, it didn’t crush my bubbly, hopeful spirit right away. I kept trying to connect. I tried and failed. Tried again and failed even harder. But I kept trying anyway.
Somehow, I made it to middle school. New school. New year. New me—or at least that’s what I hoped.
Once again, I tried making friends. Some boys and girls seemed funny, interesting, and shared similar interests. On the surface, it felt like the perfect starting point. A foundation for belonging.
Instead, everything escalated. Before I even had a chance to show who I really was, they had already made up their minds about me. The judgment came instantly. Nothing is more discouraging than never being given a chance at all.
Over the next few years, I endured relentless physical and emotional abuse. Harassment in hallways. Kicks. Laughter. Cruel names whispered and shouted. I couldn’t even go to the bathroom without something happening. It grew into something much bigger—something everyone joined in on. Students bullied me openly. Teachers ignored it. I can’t count how many times my parents spoke to teachers and the headmaster, only to be told, “We don’t care.” Eventually, I stopped telling my parents about most incidents. It felt pointless.
That was the worst feeling of my life. Feeling alone. Unworthy. Scared. Broken. And still, somehow, I kept going. I honestly don’t know how. Looking back, I can’t name a single clear reason. Maybe I just got used to the pain. And I was barely twelve years old.
What sounds like something from a tragic novel somehow became my reality. Don’t ask me how all of this happened without intervention from teachers or police—it just did. Everyone knew, but no one cared. The police wouldn’t act because we were “too young.” I don’t know how things might have turned out if this happened today. Bullying is taken far more seriously now, and I’m grateful for that.
Back then, it was dismissed as “nonsense” or “kids being kids.” It all started with my skin condition, but it didn’t stop there. Hurting me became entertainment. Somewhere along the line, the unimaginable happened. On my way home, I was raped by two men. One of them was a school bully. I won’t go into details. All you need to know is that I kept it a secret for years. Thankfully, about a year later, my parents pulled me out of that school. They still didn’t know what had happened. I told no one. But inside, I was falling apart and becoming suicidal.
Despite everything, I managed to finish middle school. I gave up just weeks into high school. That was when I finally told my parents everything. They immediately took me out of school for an entire year so I could focus on healing and rebuilding my mental health.
That year saved my life.
I learned so much—about bullying, about trauma, and about why people hurt others. Often, it’s a defense mechanism. When someone is deeply insecure or unhappy with themselves, they try to feel powerful by tearing someone else down.
Understanding that changed everything. I realized there was nothing wrong with me. Yes, maybe I could have handled certain situations differently—but the body I was born with was never my fault. My skin made me vulnerable, but it was never wrong.
I also learned how to protect myself emotionally. How to stop absorbing cruel comments and judgment. That strength helped me return to school and graduate at 18.
Two years later, I gave birth to my son—the most incredible thing that has ever happened to me. He is my reason. My reason to promote self-love, to educate others about bullying, and to show the world how beautiful it is to be different. Today, I am in love with life, with myself, and with my body.
My life has been a roller coaster of extreme highs and painful lows. But right now, I’m climbing higher than ever. I am a professional model—thank you, body.
My son carried me through my darkest moments. When everyone else disappeared, he became a home for my soul.
We are all different in our own ways, and we are so incredibly valid. Perfect as we are. We grow. We evolve. But we never have to change for anyone else. You are the artist, and your body is your canvas. Do whatever you want with it. Because true beauty is diversity, acceptance, and freedom.
I am only 22 years old, and I know my story is far from over. I can’t wait for the years ahead, for more love, joy, and healing. I will keep fighting until every one of you feels safe in your body—because that is your right.
