I LOST MY OLD FACE

I LOST MY OLD FACE

There are losses people understand immediately.

You lose a job. You lose a loved one. You lose a home. You lose money. You lose a relationship.

People know those things hurt.

But there are other losses that are harder to explain because technically, the thing is still there.
That is how I feel about my face.

I did not literally lose it. I still wake up with the same skin, the same cheekbones, the same mouth, and the same expressions. But illness, surgeries, eye injections, medications, steroids, and vision loss changed the face I remembered.

And for a while, it felt like I had lost my old face.

Before my vision became this limited, I was a makeup girl. I loved a good beat. I loved eyebrows that looked right, a contoured nose, lashes, a cute wig, a sharp outfit, and that feeling of walking out of the house knowing I looked good.

That was not me trying to impress everybody else.

It was part of how I expressed myself.

Some people paint. Some decorate their homes. Some collect sneakers. Some change their hair every week. I liked putting myself together. I liked color. I liked fashion. I liked seeing the finished look in the mirror.

Then I slowly lost the ability to do that the same way.

As my vision changed, I could no longer see colors clearly. I could not always tell whether my makeup was blended, whether my eyebrows matched, whether my clothes coordinated, or whether something small was on my face.

I could not confidently look in the mirror and answer the basic questions most people never think about.

Do I have food near my mouth?

Is there something in my eye?

Is my skin dry in one spot?

Is my hair sitting correctly?

Is this outfit actually cute, or do I just hope it is?

Can you imagine not being able to see your own face clearly?

I do not mean catching a blurry glimpse. I mean not being able to inspect yourself, study your expression, notice the little changes, or make the small corrections you have made your entire life.

That became my reality.

And the strange part is that sometimes not being able to see my face protects me. I cannot stand in front of a mirror and obsess over every difference all day. But I still remember what I used to look like.

I remember my eyes.

People used to compliment them all the time. They said I had cat eyes. They asked where I was from because of their shape. I loved them too.

Then I lost the vision in my left eye. That eye changed. It became lazy. Later, surgeries and treatments changed the way both eyes looked. Steroids made my face rounder and puffier. Different glasses became part of my life. My eyes did not sit or move the way I remembered.

The changes became visible evidence that something had happened to me.

That part bothered me more than I wanted to admit.

Before, I could decide when I wanted to tell someone about my disability. I could walk into a room and simply be Cori. A business owner. A speaker. A mom. A woman with a whole lot to say.

But when your eyes look different, when you use a cane, when medication changes your face, people may notice before you are ready to explain anything.

Sometimes they look concerned.

Sometimes curious.

Sometimes uncomfortable.

And sometimes they look at you with pity.

I hate pity.

I remember running into a young man I knew from high school. Back then, he thought I hung the moon. He was younger than me and would have done just about anything I asked. Carry my books. Buy me something. Probably lay across a puddle so I would not get my shoes wet.

Years later, he saw me after my eye had changed and I had gained weight. His reaction felt like, “What happened to you?”

Maybe he did not mean it cruelly. Maybe he was simply surprised. But I heard it in his tone. I felt the difference in the way he looked at me.

This person who once looked at me with admiration now seemed to be looking at me with shock or concern.

That moment hit me hard.

It made me wonder how many other people saw me that way.

• Do they see what happened before they see who I am?

• Do they feel sorry for me?

• Do they assume my life must be tragic?

• Do they think I am less confident, less capable, or less beautiful because my eyes and face changed?

Those questions can mess with you if you let them.

And I did let them for a while.

There were seasons when I did not want to be on camera. I did not feel like myself without makeup. I did not want to record videos if I could not tell exactly how I looked. I became more aware of every possible flaw even though I could not see those flaws clearly.

That is a strange kind of anxiety.

You are worried about something you cannot verify.

You are asking other people, “Do I look okay?” and then deciding whether you trust their answer.

You are trying to dress for a speaking engagement, a networking event, a client meeting, or a trip while depending on somebody else to tell you what color your clothes are.

And when looking polished is part of your work, that can feel like losing control of more than your appearance.

It can feel like losing part of your professional identity.

I am a speaker. I attend events. I travel for business. I show up online. I represent my company. Looking put together matters to me.

So I had to learn new ways to do it.

Sometimes I ask my son or another family member what color something is.

Sometimes I have someone check my outfit.

Sometimes I organize clothing in ways that make it easier to match.

Sometimes I choose pieces I already know work together.

Sometimes I pay a makeup artist because if I am going to be on a stage or at a major event, I want to know I am snatched and beat to the gods.

Let us not get ridiculous. Acceptance does not mean giving up standards.

It means finding a different route to the outcome you still want.

That lesson applies far beyond makeup.

For a long time, I thought independence meant being able to do everything without help.

Now I understand independence differently.

Independence means having options.

It means knowing how to get the information you need.

It means using tools, people, technology, systems, and services so that your life is not completely controlled by what you cannot do alone.

Asking someone to identify a color does not erase my independence.

Hiring a makeup artist does not make me less capable.

Using a screen reader, AI, or visual assistance app does not make me less intelligent.

Support is not the opposite of independence.

Sometimes support is what makes independence possible.

Still, the practical solutions did not immediately solve the emotional part.

I had to grieve.

I had to admit that I missed seeing myself.

I had to admit that I missed doing my own makeup with confidence.

I had to admit that I missed walking into a store, choosing clothes by myself, and knowing exactly what I had selected.

I had to admit that the physical changes made me feel less beautiful on some days.

People sometimes rush grief because they want to reach the inspirational part.

They want the lesson. The comeback. The polished ending.

But grief does not disappear because you found a positive perspective.

You can be grateful for your life and still be angry about what changed.

You can be confident and still have insecure days.

You can love yourself and still miss the way you used to look.

You can accept your body and still wish illness had not changed it.

Those things can all be true at the same time.

I think we do people a disservice when we make acceptance sound like a finish line.

As if one day you wake up, love every change, and never struggle again.

That is not my experience.

Most days, I am still me. Confident. Loud. Driven. Funny. Capable. A whole boss.

But there are days when I catch a glimpse of myself and feel sad.

There are days when I want my old eyes back.

There are days when I want to see my face clearly.

There are days when I am tired of asking what color something is.

There are days when I do not want to need a second opinion before leaving the house.

And then I keep going.

Not because I am pretending it does not hurt.

Because my life is still happening.

I am still a mom.

I am still a wife.

I am still a speaker.

I am still a CEO.

I am still the woman who walks into a room and makes an impact.

My eyes changed, but my ability to think did not.

My face changed, but my values did not.

My makeup routine changed, but my personality did not.

My confidence was shaken, but it was not destroyed.

That distinction matters.

Something that is shaken can be rebuilt.

Part of rebuilding my confidence was learning to separate appearance from worth without pretending appearance did not matter to me.

The makeup was part of me, but it was not all of me.

The clothes were part of me, but they were not all of me.

My eyes were part of me, but they were never the full measure of me.

I was still intelligent.

Still creative.

Still strategic.

Still funny.

Still loving.

Still bold.

Still able to help people solve problems and build businesses.

Still able to raise my son, support my family, teach, coach, lead, and make an impact.

And sometimes, I had to remind myself of that out loud.

I believe in speaking yourself up.

If nobody is nearby to hype you up, you better hype yourself up.

That is not arrogance. That is maintenance.

Negative self-talk is loud when you are grieving. It will list every loss, every difference, and every fear. It will tell you that everybody is judging you. It will convince you that who you were is gone forever.

Sometimes you have to interrupt that mess.

Sometimes you have to breathe.

Sometimes you have to say, “Girl, you got this.”

Sometimes you have to remind yourself, “You are not new to this. You are true to this.”

Sometimes you have to put on a song, straighten your shoulders, and remember who you are before the mirror gets a vote.

I no longer believe confidence means never feeling insecure.

Confidence means insecurity does not get the final decision.

I can feel unsure about how I look and still get on camera.

I can miss my old face and still honor the face I have now.

I can grieve the woman I remember and still respect the woman standing here today.

That woman has endured surgeries, injections, medications, vision loss, depression, anxiety, business pressure, motherhood, and more changes than she asked for.

She is not less beautiful because life left evidence on her.

She is not less powerful because she needs help choosing a color.

She is not less worthy because somebody else looks at her with pity.

And she is definitely not less of a boss.

The truth is, I did not lose my old face completely.

It is still here in my expressions, my laughter, my attitude, my voice, and the way I show up.

It has simply changed.

So have I.

And while I am different, I am not less than.

That is what I want anyone dealing with visible changes, illness, medication side effects, disability, aging, injury, or any other shift in appearance to know.

You are allowed to miss what was.

You are allowed to be angry.

You are allowed to care about how you look.

You are allowed to adapt without pretending the change was easy.

You are allowed to ask for help.

You are allowed to invest in whatever makes you feel like yourself again.

And you are allowed to build a new relationship with the person in the mirror, even if you cannot always see that person clearly.

Your face may change.

Your body may change.

Your routines may change.

But your worth does not shrink just because your reflection looks different.