I’m a barista on the Gold Coast, pulling espressos in a beachside café where the sun’s as relentless as the customers. At 29, my skin was a battleground—red patches from too many sunburns, dry spots from steaming milk all day, and these stubborn acne scars from my teen years that just wouldn’t fade. I’d tried every potion going—exfoliants that stung, moisturizers that sat greasy, even those fancy serums that cost half my paycheck. Nothing stuck. I’d catch my reflection in the coffee machine and cringe—patchy, tired, not the vibe I wanted serving surfers and tourists.
One slow afternoon, a regular—Jess, a yoga teacher with flawless skin—chatted me up about red light therapy. “It’s not hocus-pocus, Mia,” she said, sipping her flat white. “Just light, and it fixes you up.” She’d been going to a studio down the road, raving about how it smoothed her complexion. I’d seen the ads on Instagram—glowing faces under red panels—but figured it was another overhyped gimmick. Still, my skin was desperate, so I booked a session, thinking, “What’s 20 bucks and 15 minutes?”
That first time, I walked into this little room with a big light panel—red and near-infrared, they said, no heat, just a bright glow. I sat there, bare-faced, hair pulled back, feeling a bit silly—like I was posing for some sci-fi shoot. The light was intense at first—had to squint—but after a minute, I relaxed into it. No burn, no sting, just this faint warmth. Fifteen minutes later, I stepped out expecting miracles—nothing dramatic, but my cheeks felt softer, less tight. Jess had warned me it’s a slow burn, not a quick fix, so I didn’t overthink it.
I kept at it—twice a week, 15 minutes, post-shift when the café quieted down. After a week—three sessions—my redness started fading, those angry sunburn patches calming down. By week four, the dry spots from steam were gone, and my skin had this even, dewy vibe I’d never pulled off. The scars? Still there, but softer, less glaring—mates kept asking if I’d switched jobs or found a new boyfriend! I’d laugh, “Nah, just some light trick.” It’s the collagen boost, they say—science stuff—but to me, it’s like the light’s painting over my flaws, one session at a time.
Six months in, I’m hooked. I ditched half my makeup stash—sunscreen and a grin do me now. I’ve got a cheap handheld unit at home—saves me the studio trek—and I’ll sit there after a shower, letting it work while I scroll TikTok. My boss noticed, too—caught me mid-shift and said, “You’re glowing, mate, what’s up?” I shrugged, “Just the light,” and he laughed, thinking I meant the beach. Last week, I pulled a double shift, checked my reflection in the machine, and thought, “Bloody hell, I look good”—not vanity, just victory.
It’s not perfect—new sunburns still flare if I’m slack with SPF—but the therapy’s my skin’s mate now. No more hiding behind foundation or dodging mirrors. I’m out there, serving lattes with a face that feels like mine again—fresh, even, alive. That red glow? It’s my Gold Coast glow-up, and I’m not going back.