My name is Gemma. I grew up near Cambridge and, after more than ten years moving around the country for education and work, I’m now back there working as a doctor and researcher. Outside of work I love watching series, travelling, music, long talks with friends, and trying to keep my houseplants alive. I’m slightly obsessed with dogs and am always planning my next trip.
I was born with giant Congenital Melanocytic Naevus (CMN): extensive birthmarks covering much of my torso, neck, scalp and scattered across the rest of my body. Less than 1% of people are born with CMN, and only a tiny fraction – around one in 200,000 – have it as extensively as I do. If you meet me, you’ll see some of it; other areas are hidden beneath clothes or beneath the scars of more than twenty-five operations I had as a very young child.
In the 1990s, the standard medical approach to CMN was very different to today’s. Soon after I was born, my parents were encouraged into a long series of cosmetic procedures intended to “improve” the way I looked – dermabrasion, tissue expanders, skin grafts. None of this was medically necessary, and the message, even if it was never said aloud, was that my natural appearance needed correcting. As an adult, I’ve had to reckon with how those early experiences shaped me. Although the surgeries arguably created more visible difference rather than less, I often feel strangely grateful that most of my birthmarks remain: I would be a very different person without the skin I’ve grown up in.
Despite this unusual start, I remember a mostly happy childhood. I integrated well at school, threw myself into sports teams and dancing, and had friends who were fiercely protective of me – more than I realised at the time. The people who negatively commented the most on my appearance were usually strangers: kids on opposing teams, adults in public places, the occasional tactless professional. But even with all of that, I didn’t truly understand how different I looked until adolescence.
My teenage years were complicated. Alongside the usual turmoil of figuring out who I was, I became hyper-aware of my appearance. I withdrew from sports I loved because the clothing felt too exposing. I layered myself in scarves and sleeves, even in summer. I developed body-focused repetitive behaviours and a constant vigilance about how others might react to me. With the benefit of hindsight – and therapy – I now understand these patterns as the result of several intersecting threads: early medical trauma, my neurodivergent brain trying to cope, and growing up without many reflections of people who looked like me.
One of the turning points came through travel. In my mid-teens I began visiting friends in Spain, where beach days were impossible to avoid. Terrifying, at first. I remember one afternoon so clearly: lying on a towel, heart pounding, noticing some local boys I vaguely knew doing parkour nearby. They spotted me and my friend, came over to chat, and… nothing bad happened. Nobody commented on my marks. Nobody laughed. They were simply warm, cheerful teenagers who treated me as myself. That moment – ordinary in every way – was extraordinary for me. It chipped away at the story I’d internalised about how people would respond to my skin.
Around the same time, I was getting more involved with Caring Matters Now, who connected me with others who had skin like mine. Meeting them for the first time – after years of feeling like the only one – was quietly transformative. Growing up, I had never once seen anyone with CMN in everyday life, books, magazines, or media. For so long, the absence of representation reinforced the feeling that I was an anomaly. Being surrounded by people whose skin mirrored my own was profoundly grounding.
Later, taking part in Brock Elbank’s international #howdoyoucmenow exhibition became another milestone. For two weeks I balanced medical school exams with media interviews, messages from people around the world, and the overwhelming experience of seeing thirty beautiful portraits of people who all carried the same kind of map on their skin as I did. It was the first time I’d seen my condition represented artistically and unapologetically. It left a mark on me in the best possible way.
Photography became an unexpected thread in my life. I’ve collaborated with several wonderful photographers and advocacy organisations. I even ended up featuring in Vogue Brasil, a Specsavers advert, Knitting Magazine, WUKA underwear campaigns, and various other quirky projects. Modelling helped me see my skin as interesting, complex, even beautiful – not because it needed validation, but because it broadened my understanding of how others might genuinely perceive me. It felt important for my younger self, who never saw anyone like her in magazines or art. In hindsight, it was also a kind of exposure therapy: relinquishing control over how people might see me, challenging my internal critic, and trusting the photographer’s creativity. And, importantly, it led to fun opportunities to connect with new people, experiences, and perspectives.
As I’ve grown older, my relationship with my skin has settled into something gentler. I still get stares. I still have days where I feel unsure or self-conscious. But more often now, people approach me with curiosity or kindness: “Your skin is beautiful,” “Your markings are fascinating,” “I’ve never seen anything like this – can I ask about it?” I’ve learnt that confidence shapes how others respond, and that self-love – the real kind – isn’t about adoring every part of yourself. It’s about knowing your worth isn’t defined by anyone else’s reaction.
These days, I understand my CMN as one part of a much bigger picture of who I am. It influenced my childhood. It brought challenges. It taught me resilience, empathy, humour, and the capacity to take up space even when the world suggests shrinking. It led me into communities I deeply value. And it has given me a perspective in medicine that I wouldn’t trade: a sense of what it feels like to be “looked at” rather than “seen,” and how important it is for healthcare to preserve dignity and autonomy – especially for children.
If you’re a young person with CMN, or a parent reading this, I want you to know this: there is no correct way to feel. You don’t have to be endlessly brave or positive. You don’t have to love your appearance all the time. Your discomfort, your pride, your confusion, your joy – all of it is valid. And if you’re a parent, please know that your child can grow up to have a full, joyful, ordinary, extraordinary life – not in spite of their skin, but simply as themselves.
I never thought I’d reach a point where I could genuinely appreciate my skin, but here I am — still learning, still growing, still discovering new ways to inhabit my body with softness and confidence. I don’t know exactly what the next chapter will look like, but I’m no longer afraid of being seen. That still feels like progress. This journey hasn’t been linear, but it has been mine. And I’m proud of that.
