The first time I saw my bald spot, I was 10,000 feet in the air. Skydiving over Wollongong, Australia, should have been exhilarating. But when I got the photos back, my eyes didn’t register the stunning landscape. Instead, they locked onto the crown of my head, where the wind had exposed a pale, empty patch of scalp. A bald spot, stark against the tangle of brown hair. Panic set in.
For months, I noticed the signs: clumps in the shower drain, a shrinking ponytail, strands breaking at the slightest touch. My curly hair had always been high-maintenance — requiring heavy conditioner and keratin treatments. Those treatments altered my texture temporarily, but this was different: the shedding was relentless. Still, I convinced myself I was imagining things. I was too busy enjoying my junior year abroad to dwell. But deep down, I knew something was wrong.
A year ago, I got an IUD. At first, nothing changed, but now, hair was everywhere — clogging my sink, dusting my pillow, tangled in my fingers. My parents and doctors dismissed my concerns. Hair loss associated with hormonal IUDs was rare — a Kyleena clinical study found only 1 percent of users experienced it. No, they said, this was stress.
But I wasn’t stressed; I was thriving. In Australia, I woke up to sea salt in the air and spent afternoons sprawled on the sand. I felt free — until I didn’t. Every shower, every gust of wind, and every absentminded run of my fingers through my hair reminded me something was off. Then, the world shut down.
One moment, I was watching the sunset over Bondi Beach. The next, I was on a plane back to New York, thrown into isolation. The loss of my independence, my routine, and the chaos of a global pandemic only amplified the one thing I still had control over: my hair.
I became obsessed with tracking its fallout, twisting my phone at impossible angles to capture every thinning patch. I scrutinized photos, searching for proof that it wasn’t getting worse, as if documenting it could somehow make it stop.
I FaceTimed my hairstylist, desperate for reassurance. She squinted at the screen, leaned in, and didn’t mince words: “This looks like alopecia.”
My stomach dropped. I pictured my future reflection: no lashes, no eyebrows, no hair. One afternoon, I sat six feet apart from my best friend in a socially distanced meetup, tears slipping down my cheeks. “I don’t recognize myself anymore,” I admitted.
“If it all falls out, we’ll get wigs together,” she said. I forced a weak laugh, but inside, I was unraveling.
I tried everything under the sun — every serum, supplement, desperate Internet remedy. Spironolactone made my breasts two different sizes; Nutrafol and WellBel drained my bank account (and I didn’t see results). I massaged rosemary oil into my scalp until my pillowcases reeked of herbs. I slept in hair masks. I used scalp-stimulating brushes. I was desperate for control over a body that felt like it was betraying me.
Nothing helped. I was convinced my hairstylist was right. But months later, after countless dermatology visits and blood tests, she was proven wrong. The fear she had planted in me had been unnecessary. Worse, it had made me question my own instincts. Because I had been right.
I had suspected my IUD all along. It was the only major change in my routine, but no one listened. After enough dismissals, I started doubting myself, too. But after six months of frustration, my dermatologist finally ran a hormone test. The results confirmed it: my IUD had lowered my estrogen levels. I had it removed immediately.
Almost instantly, something changed. My hair felt stronger, firmly rooted in my scalp. Slowly, inch by inch, it grew back. Today, my hair is as thick as ever, and my bald spot is completely gone. But even as my hair returned, the fear didn’t fade overnight. I still think about it all the time.
Hair is so important for women; not just for vanity, but for identity. When mine was thick and long, I felt confident. As it disappeared, that confidence faded, too. No matter what I did, it never looked quite right, and that was the most frustrating part — losing control over something so deeply tied to my sense of self.
Through it all, I learned something even more important: the best thing you can do for your body is listen. To its signals, to your instincts, to that quiet voice that says something isn’t right. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t in my head. I just needed to advocate for myself, even when my symptoms were being casually dismissed.
A few months ago, I re-discovered that old skydiving photo. My eyes still flicked to the crown of my head, but this time, I didn’t see the hair loss. Instead, I saw someone who had been free-falling in more ways than one — but had landed on solid ground.
Olivia Tauber is a freelance writer based in New York, passionate about crafting authentic stories through personal essays and profiles. Her career began in corporate publicity at Showtime and Paramount, followed by production for “The Pivot,” an Emmy-nominated series.
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