My name is Kylie, and I’ve been living with alopecia since I was six years old. Now at 39, people often say, “you must be used to it by now.” But the truth is, you never really get used to it. There are still quiet moments where I catch myself wishing, “what if it just grew back?”

It started with something small—hair on my pillow. Then more, and more. My parents first thought it was something simple, like tying my ponytails too tight. But as the weeks went on and the hair kept falling, fear slowly crept in. After months of searching for answers, I was diagnosed with alopecia.

I don’t remember every doctor’s visit, but I remember the feeling—hope, followed by disappointment, over and over again. My parents took me everywhere, trying everything, holding onto the possibility that something might work.

By the time I was seven, all of my hair was gone.

At first, I tried to hide. Hats became my comfort, my shield from the world. Then came the wig. I wore it every day, always aware of it—terrified it might slip, that someone might notice, that I might be seen as different.

But then came a moment that changed everything.

One summer at the beach, my parents gently encouraged me to take the wig off. No one knew me there. I was scared—but I did it. And somehow, in that moment, the fear faded. I laughed, I played, I felt free. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t thinking about my hair at all.

Going back to school without the wig was a different story. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. There were tears, stares that lingered too long, whispers I couldn’t ignore, and words that hurt more than I ever let on. I learned to be strong on the outside, to stand up for myself, to act like it didn’t bother me—even when it did, deeply.

My hair fell out again, but this time, I faced the world without hiding. No wig. No hats. Just me.

High school brought its own challenges. Being a teenager is hard enough without feeling like you stand out every time you walk into a room. But through it all, my parents never stopped supporting me, and my close friends became my safe place—the people who saw me for who I was, not what I looked like.

Then, I met the person who would become my husband. I remember the quiet fear before he truly saw me—the familiar worry of being judged, of being seen as “different.” But he didn’t hesitate. He didn’t question it. He didn’t make it a big deal. To him, my alopecia simply didn’t matter. He saw me—completely and without condition—and that kind of acceptance changed something deep within me.

Throughout every stage of my life, I have been surrounded by people who refused to let alopecia define me. My high school friends stood beside me when I felt most exposed. My family never stopped lifting me up, even on my hardest days. And my husband continues to remind me, in the simplest ways, that I am more than how I look. Their support didn’t take the struggles away—but it gave me the strength to keep facing them.

Becoming a mum brought a whole new layer to my journey. I have four beautiful children—a 12-year-old daughter, a 9-year-old son, and 4-year-old twins, a boy and a girl. Seeing alopecia through their eyes has been both challenging and powerful. I’ve had to teach them what alopecia is, why Mum looks different, and how to respond when others don’t understand. There have been moments when their friends have asked questions or even made hurtful comments, and it breaks my heart knowing they have to navigate that. But it has also made them strong, kind, and fiercely protective. Watching them stand up for me, with confidence and love, reminds me that they are learning acceptance, empathy, and resilience in the most real way.

And then there was netball.

Netball became more than just a sport—it became my escape. The moment I stepped onto the court, everything else faded away. I wasn’t “the girl with no hair.” I wasn’t different. I was just a netballer—focused, strong, and part of a team. Those moments gave me something I didn’t always feel off the court: a sense of belonging.

Even now, I still play. And for those few hours, I get to forget the stares, the questions, the weight of it all. I just get to be me.

Living with alopecia isn’t just about losing your hair. It’s about navigating a world that constantly reminds you that you’re different. It’s about building strength you never asked for, and learning to stand tall even on the days you feel small.

And sometimes, it’s simply about finding the courage to be seen—exactly as you are.