It’s 34 degrees out, and I’m in long sleeves again. Not because I want to be, but because my skin won’t shut up.
I’ve been living with psoriasis for almost three years now. For those unfamiliar, it is a chronic autoimmune condition that causes skin cells to multiply too quickly, leading to inflamed, scaly patches that itch, crack, and sometimes bleed. They show up in places I can’t always hide—my face, scalp, elbows, and legs. Unlike most illnesses, psoriasis is visible; it announces itself before I can.
The condition has no apparent cause or cure. Moreover, its manifestations are not the same for everyone. There are several types, including plaque, guttate, inverse, and psoriatic arthritis, and what works for one person might aggravate another. Some people can manage with ointments or light therapy. Others, like me, have to go through a constant cycle of trial and error: topical steroids, dietary restrictions, medicated shampoos, and immunosuppressants. And just when you think something’s working, a flare-up reminds you it’s never that simple.
More than 125 million people globally live with psoriasis. Here in the country, Psoriasis Philippines (PsorPhil) estimates that about one to two million Filipinos may be affected by the condition. This finding, unfortunately, also shows that many go undiagnosed or undertreated, especially in far-flung areas where dermatological care is scarce. While private treatment options exist, biologics and advanced therapies remain unaffordable for most. These gaps highlight that awareness and medical support for psoriasis in the Philippines remain limited.
Legislative efforts, though numerous, have been slow to meet the urgency. In 2021, the House of Representatives passed House Bill No. 9821, or the National Psoriasis Care Act, which seeks to create a comprehensive care program under the Department of Health, including PhilHealth coverage for treatments, a dedicated psoriasis care fund, and disability recognition for severe cases. The Senate filed its counterpart with Senate Bill No. 2469 in 2022, outlining similar provisions and reinforcing that severe psoriasis qualifies as a disability under the Magna Carta for Persons with Disabilities. In March 2023, the House Committee on Health approved two separate measures to propose a 4.5-billion annual budget to assist an estimated 450,000 patients.
Yet, without these bills being enacted, access to treatment remains largely out of reach. While groups like PsorPhil push the conversation forward, they can only do so much without institutional backing. Until reforms are tangibly implemented, patients face not just flare-ups, but systemic neglect.
For many of us, psoriasis doesn’t just mean discomfort. It means rejection—being denied jobs, being gawked at in jeepneys, and being told you’re dirty. Misconceptions linger: some think it’s contagious; others confuse it with eczema, an allergy, or poor hygiene.
With this, there’s a mental toll. Studies show individuals with psoriasis are more likely to experience anxiety, depression, and social isolation. Relationships also become complicated. When do you bring it up? How can you explain the flaking, the rawness, and the unpredictability? Even with friends and family, you learn to read their reactions. Sometimes they get it. Most times, they don’t.
That unpredictability is its own cruelty, too. Psoriasis flares up on its own schedule. One week, I’m okay; in the next, I’m peeling in three places at once. Each flare-up feels like starting over: rebuilding confidence, reexplaining the condition, redeciding whether to cover up or not.
Most chronic illnesses are invisible—psoriasis isn’t. It walks into the room before me, and it interrupts conversations I haven’t even started. It shows up uninvited, and I’m suddenly reduced to skin: red, flaky, loud skin. It changed how I dress, how I move, how I stand. I started shrinking my presence, not because I lacked confidence, but because I didn’t want to give anyone more reasons to look. Because attention usually meant questions. Or worse, judgment.
Beyond my experience, this reflects the way society sees visible conditions. Whether it’s psoriasis, vitiligo, severe acne, or scars, many of us live in bodies that speak before we do. Too often, we’re met with discomfort, avoidance, or unsolicited advice. That kind of attention isolates you. Worse, it shifts the burden onto those with the condition instead of addressing a society that lacks education and empathy.
What we need is a shift in perspective. We need to normalize seeing skin that doesn’t look like an airbrushed ad, to talk about chronic skin conditions not as cosmetic problems but as health issues that deserve serious attention and coverage. We need more visible, accurate representations in media and accessible treatments and healthcare conversations.
We live in a world that’s quick to react to difference with discomfort, sometimes with cruelty. But I think we all owe each other more than that. We owe each other patience, softness, and curiosity without assumption. We owe each other the chance to be heard before we’re labeled.
Psoriasis still speaks before I do. I can’t change that. But I can speak back, through writing, through photographs. In the way I try, on most days, I can take up space again—sleeves and all.
Because my body may speak first, but it doesn’t get the last word. I do.
This article was published in The LaSallian‘s June 2025 issue. To read more, visit bit.ly/TLSJune2025.
