I watched her prep for her first week of summer camp with so much hope. She’d spent the night before meticulously layering on her Cerave lotion, practically bathing in it to make sure her skin was silky and protected. She was so tired of hiding under sundresses; she just wanted to wear those distressed denim shorts and feel like one of the girls. For a moment, her legs looked perfect—smooth, hydrated, and ready for the sun.

But I had a sinking feeling when the forecast shifted. Tuesday morning was already stifling, and she was so focused on matching her friends that she didn’t realize the record-breaking heat we were about to hit. By noon, the sun was a blistering 103 degrees.

The call from the nurse at 1:00 PM was the one I’d been dreading.

The very thing meant to help her—that thick, protective barrier of Cerave and sunscreen had met its match in the scorching heat. Between the lotion, the sweat, and the constant rubbing of her denim shorts against her skin, things took a turn for the worse. Instead of smooth skin, she was left with a roadmap of angry red scratch trails. She had been so desperate for relief from the stinging itch that she’d scratched until she bled, staining the very outfits she was so proud of.

It broke my heart to find her back at the nurse’s station, overcome with embarrassment. All she wanted was to be “normal” in a bathing suit, but instead, she was hiding her marks, wondering why her skin always seemed to betray her.