I had an appointment with Dermatology today. I sat in the waiting room, looking around, and feeling like a jerk. There I sat with my golden tint and legs crossed (looking ever the bored socialite I'm sure), while I watched others limp in, some with bandages covering the skin that showed, and the rest displaying the ravages of skin cancer. There I sat with a non life threatening problem and I wanted to run away, skipping my appointment and losing the copay I had already signed off on.

At heart, I guess I'm a coward. I blamed it on shame—that desire to bolt—but it was really that I didn't want to come face to face with the sad little girl I walked away from some six years ago. There are a lot of bad habits out there, things that we do to fill some void or distract us from some feeling...but many of them aren't obvious to the world and people aren't walking around proclaiming that they're weak. Unfortunately, putting too much on your dinner plate isn't one of those habits.

It's one of those subjects that, to the right audience (my fitness forum girls can attest!) I will talk your ear off. I'll tell you everything you want to know about fitness, diet and weight loss—and how to rev your metabolism too. I'm a walking encyclopedia. But then, there are those around whom I clam up if the subject should arise and I don't want to be suspect of knowing anything on healthful living at all.

Not like this is any real comparison, but I remember my mother's first surgery, the one that left her with a 20" incision down her torso, and how Mom hated that scar. Barb, her sister, told my brother that she should be proud of the scar, "It's like a battle wound!" I found the comment stupid. What did she know of my mother's battle? Why would she think a daily visible reminder that you're different should be enviable? Hadn't she ever had something happen that she'd rather just forget altogether?

I have.

It's easy to see someone's victory but nearly impossible to imagine their struggle.

I was referred to the dermatologist after my physical earlier this month, and she was a very kind doctor. Her gentle nature made a dreaded appointment pass quickly—I didn't even break into tears as I feared I would. I left feeling a lot less like a jerk, and a lot like someone who was taking the first steps to eventually close a sensitive chapter from the destructive glare of retrospect.