Meet Abigail Marin, known online as @braveartist2005, a powerhouse of resilience, humour, and raw honesty. Diagnosed with a rare facial tumour at just six years old, Abigail’s childhood quickly shifted from playdates and schoolbags to surgeries and hospital gowns. Over a decade of complex facial reconstruction, medical interventions, and emotional recovery followed.But this isn’t just a story about survival—it’s a story about becoming. Through the intensity of childhood surgical trauma, the silence of selective mutism, and the quiet shadows of undiagnosed PTSD, Abigail slowly learned to give voice to her experience. She didn’t just rebuild her face—she built a platform, a message, and a mission.
Now, as a proud ambassador for @ChangingFacesUK, Abigail uses her journey to advocate for children’s mental health and raise awareness around visible differences. Whether she’s educating others, sharing her story online, or making triage nurses panic with her epic medical lingo (seriously, it’s a talent), Abigail is changing the narrative—one post, one conversation, and one smile at a time.
This is her story…
Hi, I’m Abigail
I was diagnosed with a tumour when I was six years old. We don’t really know when it started growing, but by the age of seven, it was removed. That year was a blur of hospital stays and surgeries practically every other week. It was intense.
But removing the tumour wasn’t the end. It took parts of my face with it. I like to describe it like this: imagine you’re building a house, but the scaffolding is missing. That’s what it felt like. So, doctors had to step in and become the structural engineers of my face—making sure things didn’t literally collapse.
And because I was growing, things had to be constantly readjusted. With what felt like, surgeries every five minutes (okay, maybe a slight exaggeration), infections became part of the usual drama.
That went on until I was 17, when I had a major reconstruction surgery—17 and a half hours long. They took bones and blood supply from different parts of my body and finally built a properly functioning face. The biggest chunk came from my fibula.
Fun fact: You can actually live perfectly fine without the middle bit of it. Who knew? Definitely, not me. I remember the doctor telling me, “Don’t worry, you’ll still walk,” and I was like, “Cool, wish I’d known that before panicking.”
Since that reconstruction, it’s been more about maintenance—occasional surgeries here and there, just tweaks to keep everything in place.
Healing After Childhood Surgical Trauma
“Emotionally it’s been a journey”.
Living through all that from such a young age changes you. At first, I didn’t know anything else. This was just my life. But things hit differently when you become a teenager. Suddenly I realised—oh, this is actually scary. And traumatic. When I was a kid, I didn’t understand why these adults were hurting me. I just thought they were being mean.
As I got older, the trauma surfaced as depression and anxiety. I was also selectively mute as a child—my way of taking control in a situation where I felt powerless. My silence was my protest, my shield, my tantrum.
I started seeing a psychologist when I was six. My anesthesiologist actually suggested it—shout out to them for recognising early on that this wasn’t just physical. Therapy helped me understand the things I couldn’t name back then—like how hospital beeping made me anxious or why school bells triggered me. Eventually, my psychologist gently introduced the idea that I might have PTSD. I’ve never been formally diagnosed, but I’ve definitely had to learn how to navigate it.
Learning To Live With Medical PTSD
“It wasn’t just me who had to learn”.
My mum was totally thrown in the deep end. There’s no parenting manual for this kind of stuff. She had to learn alongside me, with help from my psychologist, how to support me, how to understand that my silence wasn’t rudeness—it was fear. And I’m so grateful to her for doing everything she could.
“Sometimes I forget not everyone lives in “medical world.”
Especially in high school. I’d casually mention things like “I have constant pain”, and my friends would just stare like, “I’m sorry, what?” And I’d be like, “No, it’s fine, chill.” And they’d say, “That’s not chill.”
One of the weirdest parts of my journey has been the whole tear duct situation. When they removed parts of the tumour, my lacrimal system—basically the tear duct—got removed too. That caused constant tearing and infections. We tried multiple tubes (literal tiny plastic ones) to replace the duct. I think I had five in total? One scratched my cornea, some fell out, others just didn’t like being in me.
Eventually, after my reconstruction, we had a chance to try again. And it worked—for a while! It stayed in longer than any of the others, but then I had a septorhinoplasty (a nose job for function, not aesthetics), and the swelling messed everything up. The tube started pushing out of my eye. I ended up in A&E, where a doctor, without numbing me, just yanked it out. Super fun. Not.
I don’t currently have a tube, but my nose works better now, so… win?
Navigating The NHS
“Hospitals are like second homes, but they still drive me crazy.“
Especially A&E. You wait forever, even when you know exactly what’s wrong. And because I’m under so many specialties, I never know which department to go to. My face alone has had about a dozen different doctors. I once went to a triage nurse and said, “My fake lacrimal tube is coming out of my eye,” and she looked at me like I had three heads. Poor woman probably thought I was delusional. I forget not everyone speaks fluent medical chaos.
Healing Childhood Surgical Trauma: Speaking Out
“But talking about it? That changed everything.“
When I finally opened up, it was like lifting a giant weight off my chest. During COVID, I hit a breaking point. My health tanked, and I just crumbled. I told my therapist, “I can’t live like this anymore.” And somehow, just saying that made me feel like I could breathe again.
It was hard to talk to my family at first. They were close to me, but that closeness can make it harder sometimes. My mum ended up calling my old therapist and booking an appointment because she could see I wasn’t coping. And that helped me start working through things again.
“If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: healing takes time.“
Emotionally, mentally, physically—it all takes time. I used to think, “I should be fine by now.” But no. You have to let it come in waves. My family always reminded me—if you’re angry, be angry. Feel the feelings. Don’t shove them down. The sooner you start, the sooner you’ll find your peace. But it’s okay to go slow.
“And lastly, get yourself a comfort item. I swear by it”.
Before my biggest surgery, I bought myself a new plushie—something to look forward to after it was all done. That plushie got me through some dark nights. I even have one from my time in Great Ormond Street that’s basically a member of the family now. Everyone needs their thing that brings them comfort. Whether it’s a teddy, a playlist, a hoodie—hold on to it.
“Take it day by day. And when in doubt, hug your plushie.“
Final Thoughts
Abigail’s story is a fierce reminder that trauma doesn’t have to break you—it can build you. From whispered fears in hospital hallways to boldly educating others about respect for those who look different, she’s lived the emotional rollercoaster and come out swinging.
Her message? Healing isn’t linear. It’s messy. It’s slow. But it’s possible.
Whether you’re navigating your own scars—physical or emotional—or supporting someone who is, Abigail’s journey shows that finding your voice, feeling your feelings, and embracing the small comforts (like a good plushie) can make all the difference.
Take it day by day. Feel it all. And when in doubt—find something to hug and keep going.
Share Your Story — Help Someone Else Heal
Are you a woman who’s been through surgery, trauma, or scarring — and come out the other side?
You don’t have to be “fully healed” to share your journey. You just need a voice — and the courage to use it.
Your story can help someone else feel seen. It can show another woman that she’s not alone, that healing is possible, and that scars can be beautiful too.
Want to share your Scarred and Fabulous story?
Fill out the form below and I will be in touch 🩷If you want to remain anonymous, that’s totally fine, doesn’t mean your stories aren’t worth telling.
p.s If you want to keep up with the amazing Abigail Marin, you can find her shining her light @braveartist2005
