Spanish
As Erica Rimlinger tells it
I used to be the person who showed up to the Christmas party every year with a tan and a fresh tan. A tan was part of my regular beauty routine, and without it I felt incomplete. I never thought I would walk into my longtime tanning salon and cancel my membership, but that day came.
In the cancellation form I was asked to provide a reason. In large letters I wrote: MELANOMA. I was 26 years old, I had just been diagnosed with one of the deadliest forms of skin cancer, and I was angry at myself for ignoring the warnings in the fine print of my contract. The salon employee looked at my completed form, said, “Okay, everything is done,” and walked away.
Previously, my mother had urged me to get a mole on my chest checked. She was worried because my father had been diagnosed with stage 0 melanoma the month before. I thought my father’s diagnosis would understandably make her a little paranoid. Just five weeks after my 26th birthday, I was nowhere near my father’s age and my suspicious birthmark looked nothing like his. Mine wasn’t as big as my dad’s mole – but it was multi-colored with uneven edges.
I dismissed her with a “Sure, Mom,” but her concern stuck in my brain. I went down a Google rabbit hole and looked at too many pictures of suspicious moles. Finally, I thought, Okay, it wouldn’t hurt to have a skin check with a dermatologist.
I was somewhat unprepared for the experience of standing naked from head to toe in front of a doctor I had met five seconds earlier. I have a lot of moles and when the doctor examined them, he asked about my tanning bed use, my family history of melanoma, and my sunbathing habits. I felt uncomfortable and a little defensive. I live in Ohio where we don’t get a lot of sun and a tan is a standard of beauty. You wouldn’t see a model without a tan, right? The doctor asked if I had any moles that were troubling me. I stubbornly said no.
2019
However, he enlarged the picture, which my mother didn’t like. It didn’t look like the rest of my moles. He removed it for a biopsy and I thought, “Great. All done.” I had heard of people repeatedly having pre-cancerous moles removed. That didn’t mean anything bad was happening. My mother would be happy if I did my skin check, and I admit that I felt a little better too.
The doctor said I would get the results in three to five business days, but after ten days I hadn’t heard anything. I called the doctor’s office and asked if they had lost my birthmark. The medical team apologized and said they had sent her for further tests. That’s when I felt the first negative mood.
On the 14th business day after the biopsy, I was sitting in the car with my husband when the dermatologist’s office called with my results. The grim tone of my doctor’s voice announced melanoma before the word was even uttered. Thank God my husband drove. I had stage 1a bordering on 1b melanoma. My first thought was, “This is worse than my dad’s.” Then I thought, “How could this be worse than my dad’s?” The doctor recommended immediate surgery and a lymph node test. The entire call lasted less than 10 minutes, but it had drained all the color from my face and my world.
Two weeks after that call, I checked in at the hospital for an eight-hour day. I had never had anesthesia before. The only medical procedure I had was the removal of my wisdom teeth. After surgery, I woke up with two large cuts and a wave of sadness over the life I no longer had. I didn’t just enjoy being tan. Tanning was deeply embedded in my body image. In addition to sadness, I also felt anger at myself, at the sun, and even at my father’s habit of getting sunburned while mowing the lawn or playing golf.
I wanted to run again, lift weights and lie in the sun. The first two wishes had to wait until I was healed, and the third was no longer an option for me. I would have to change my lifestyle – and cancel my tanning salon membership.
I ended my pity party after about a month and a half. I realized it wasn’t going to get me anywhere, and I was given the opportunity to learn, change my habits, and appreciate my second chance. But I did this in silence and told almost no one because I was ashamed of my diagnosis.
2024
Over the next two years after my surgery, I had frequent skin exams and more biopsies than I could count. My whole body felt like it was being cut. Under the weight of the mental, emotional and physical toll of survival, I realized I needed support. It was time to share my story.
I came across #melanoma on social media and was amazed at how many young people in their 20s were sharing their melanoma stories. I took a photo of my scars, posted it, then panicked and threw the phone across the room.
The contempt, shame, and “I told you so” messages I expected never showed up—not once. Instead, my community gave me love and support and I was so grateful. As I began connecting with other melanoma survivors and advocates, the burden became lighter.
I’m glad I asked for support back then. My father’s melanoma returned in his brain and lungs. After 21 rounds of immunotherapy, gamma knife radiation, and multiple emergency room visits, my father’s lesions began to shrink. Today my father is still here and his melanoma is almost gone. We are so grateful and this experience has brought our family much closer together.
Leah and her father at their wedding, June 2025. (Photo/Aisley Herndon)
I now own my sun-loving past. Instead of silently shaming myself, I’m speaking up and advocating for sun care and skin checks. I volunteer for the Melanoma Research Foundation and am a member of the leadership committee of the Melanoma Research Alliance (MRA). For MRA, I go to Capitol Hill every year and call on Congress to protect research funds, ban tanning beds, and study better sunscreen ingredients.
Instead of criticizing myself for neglecting sun protection as a teenager and young adult, I’m working to change the culture that encourages people to ignore the risks of tanning. I still go to Christmas parties glowing – but full of gratitude, not tanned.
This educational resource was created with support from Merck.
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Our “Real Women, Real Stories” are the authentic experiences of real-life women. The views, opinions and experiences shared in these stories are not endorsed by HealthyWomen and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of HealthyWomen.
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