There are three headbands hanging on my bedroom wall – a pink one, a green one, and a black one with pink polka-dots. They’ve been there for almost seven years between the mirrored dresser and the bookshelf. I haven’t pulled them off their hook in three years, yet they hang there demurely, with little protest.

It seems strange, in retrospect, that I haven’t looked at them in so long. I used to depend upon those headbands; I couldn’t leave the house without one. I remember sitting in class, my hands flying anxiously to my head, double-checking for the familiar strip of fabric. What I had carefully concealed underneath – what those headbands so faithfully camouflaged – were the places where my scalp had been plucked bald.

I began pulling out my hair in fourth grade, beginning with my eyebrows. I quickly graduated to my part-line, which I thinned in a matter of weeks, after which I moved on to my eyelashes. I found that whenever I became stressed or overwhelmed, I could simply reach for my hair and feel, along with the tingling of my scalp, a release of anxiety. It didn’t hurt. I was intrigued – fascinated – addicted. But with this fascination came ugly bald patches, and with my baldness came an overwhelming sense of guilt.

For years, I hid my thinning hairline underneath strips of colored fabric and tucked wispy new growth underneath fashionable hats. I didn’t want the world to know about the nights I spent in my room, anxiously fiddling with my hairline. I made every attempt to stop. I bought stress balls and silly putty to play with. I covered my fingers in band-aids and tied my hair in braids. I wore gloves to school. Nothing seemed to work. Bald patches expanded across my head like a time lapse of continental drift.

Then came eighth grade. That was the year my parents sent me to a therapist, and I started to confront my anxieties head on. We learned my hair pulling has a name – trichotillomania – and it is an unconscious neurological response to high anxiety. In order to stop, I had to stop worrying about it. I had to begin to accept my anxiety and my trich as integral pieces of who I am, and stop blaming myself.

And so I began to see trich in a whole new light. I began to realize that it alerted me to underlying anxieties – and, when I found myself pulling, I could learn to step back and confront whatever was bothering me. I began to accept trich as a blessing – a tool that could help me self-reflect and grow. And I began to see my baldness as a battle scar, and to see how that, in itself, is beautiful.

It’s been years since I’ve had noticeable bald patches. My wispy new hairs have grown in; I no longer wear gloves or stock up on silly putty. Trich has faded into the background of my life. I still keep those headbands hanging on my wall though. Occasionally, I will glance up at them and be suddenly struck with a strong impression of my fifth-grade self – braces and wispy hair and half-missing eyebrows – and be reminded where I have been and where I am going. I don’t know what challenges my future may hold, but I intend to march ahead wholeheartedly and unafraid.