MUM-of-two Sheetal Surti, 42, from Birmingham, lost all the pigmentation in her skin – and with it, her image as a British Indian.

Here, she reveals how she rebuilt her confidence and recovered her sense of self as told to Sarah Whiteley.

Shaking hands with a new colleague, I saw her glance at my name badge, a confused expression on her face.

“Sheetal?” she said. “That’s an unusual name.”I knew what she was thinking – my name didn’t match my appearance as a white woman.

“My parents went through a hippy stage and gave me an Indian name,”

I smiled. It was a lie. My parents Mina, 69, and Anil, 72, are Indian, but you’d never know from looking at me, because a condition called universal vitiligo has stripped the brown pigmentation from my skin.

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It was 1987 and I was seven when my big sister Tejal, now 45, noticed a patch of white skin behind my ear the size of a penny.

She pointed it out to my parents, but they had no idea what it was.

Over time, more patches appeared on my face and all over my body.

I was too young to be concerned, but my parents took me to the GP, who diagnosed vitiligo, but knew little about it back then.

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My parents were sent away with no information about what could be done and no referral to any specialist. 

As my skin continued to turn from brown to white, they were so worried, particularly as relatives and friends would ask if I had leprosy or skin cancer and would shake their heads and wonder aloud if anyone would ever want to marry me.

My parents tried to shield me from their worry, but I could tell that every time they looked at me they were very anxious.

I was lucky the children at school didn’t comment, but people in the street would stare and I became deeply self-conscious.

When I was 10, my parents took me to India for five weeks, after hearing from a friend about a clinic in Bombay that treated vitiligo with herbal medicine.

Sitting on the plane, I felt so excited. 

I was going to be cured, I believed, and my parents could stop worrying about me.

I was prescribed numerous treatments, from cutting out dairy and spices from my diet, to putting oil on my white patches and sitting in the sun for hours.

I was seven when my big sister Tejal, now 45, noticed a patch of white skin behind my ear the size of a penny.

I also had the dead skin cells scraped off my white patches with a razor blade, then a herbal paste applied.

It felt like my skin was burning, so Mum and Dad would fan me to try to cool it down.

I was taken back to India three more times between the ages of 10 and 16, spending up to six weeks at a time there, but nothing worked – because, as I know now, there is no cure for vitiligo.

My parents were desperate to “fix” me, and were only doing what they thought best.

Years passed and more of my skin turned pale.

While girls in my class began trying out different styles of clothes, I stuck to long-sleeved tops and trousers to cover up.

By the time I was 17, I was tired of my life revolving around trips to India and taking “medicines”. 

I sat down with my father and told him I couldn’t do this any more.

It felt like my skin was burning, so Mum and Dad would fan me to try to cool it down.

He was really understanding and I felt so relieved.

At the age of 21 I was working in a bank, and my vitiligo had spread so much that I’d lost all of the pigmentation in my skin.

To the outside world, I looked white. But I wasn’t. I felt lost, as I didn’t look like my community any more, but I wasn’t white either. I had no idea where I belonged.

In March 2001, I went to a party and, afterwards, Mum told me a man called Ketan, whose family she knew, had seen me and wanted to get to know me.

In our culture, it’s normal for parents to be involved in relationships, so he’d asked Mum for my number.

He was really funny and kind on the phone, and when we met up a week later, there was an instant spark.

He knew before that first date that my pale skin was caused by vitiligo, because my condition had been talked about among our community.

It wasn’t an issue for him – he’d had a relative with vitiligo and, although he told me some people cautioned him that if we had children I might pass my condition on to them, he didn’t care.

Everyone presumed I was white – and I decided to go along with it, because I was tired of answering questions about my skin.

Despite Ketan’s acceptance, I was still self-conscious.

A few months into our relationship, he came round for a meal and Mum tried to show him pictures of me growing up, but I snapped the photo albums shut.

I didn’t want him to see my patchy phase – when, I felt, I looked my worst. 

In May 2002, we married and moved from my hometown of Wellingborough to Birmingham.

There, everyone presumed I was white – and I decided to go along with it, because I was tired of answering questions about my skin. It was easier to let people believe I was something I wasn’t.

As someone who looked white, I was acutely aware of the colour of my skin and how people reacted to it.

On more than one occasion, my Indian friends had trouble getting into nightclubs, but once I told the white bouncers they were with me, we’d be shown in.

I’d also see Indian people giving me dirty looks as I walked down the street with my husband. I could almost hear them thinking: “She’s taken one of ours.”

My parents are Indian, but you’d never know from looking at me, because a condition called universal vitiligo has stripped the brown pigmentation from my skin.

After our daughters were born in 2007 and 2008, other parents in the park, and later at the school gates, would often assume I was their nanny because of the difference in our skin colour.

It hurt that people thought they weren’t my flesh and blood.

When supermodel Winnie Harlow hit the mainstream media in 2014, I was blown away to see a woman with vitiligo being celebrated.

She was so beautiful and a role model for women like me, but I lacked her self-confidence.

Three years later, I watched a TV documentary about vitiligo and it was a watershed moment for me.

I realised the taboo around the condition was what made it so difficult to bear, and I was playing a part in that by lying about who I was.

For the first time, I showed my husband a photo of myself as a teenager, covered in vitiligo patches.

I opened up about how traumatised I still felt about growing up with the condition. He was stunned, but relieved I’d decided to speak about it to him.

I now know my identity runs far more than just skin deep.

In June 2018, I posted the same photo on social media with an explanation of what I’d been through – though it took me over an hour to press “share” because I felt so nervous. To my relief, the response was amazing – so supportive.

That post marked the beginning of me gradually opening up, sharing more images on social media and joining vitiligo support groups to hear about others’ experiences.

Years of my life were wasted feeling self-conscious because of my skin. I can’t change the past, but I’m determined that my future will be different. 

I no longer dress to cover all my skin, nor lie about my heritage. It’s not just for me, but also for my daughters, now aged 15 and 14.

They don’t have the condition, but I still teach them to accept themselves for who they are.

I now know my identity runs far more than just skin deep. 

For more information, visit Vitiligosociety.org.

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