The microphone felt heavier than I expected. As I stood on stage at a London comedy club last December, I looked out at a room full of strangers sitting quietly, waiting for me to make them laugh. It felt nerve-racking and surreal. I had spent years hiding my vitiligo, hoping people wouldn’t notice it. Now I was about to joke about it in my set.
I was three years old when I developed my first patch of vitiligo on the back of my hand, which later spread to my arms, legs, face and other parts of my body. By the time I was six years old, 70% of me was covered. I was too young to understand what was happening.
Despite this, I had a happy childhood because I was unaware then that being different was something that was viewed negatively. I went swimming, wore shorts and T-shirts, and barely gave my skin much thought. My parents taught me it was part of me and that it wasn’t something that had to hold me back. However, what I couldn’t foresee was how others would perceive me later in life.
‘I got a buzz from the idea of dong something so far outside my comfort zone.’ Photograph: Charlotte Stevens
My teenage years were by far my hardest. I became painfully self-conscious and increasingly aware that I was different. I struggled with swimming lessons because I was worried about wearing a swimsuit, and during the summer I’d wear clothes that kept me covered because I was embarrassed about how I looked. I wore thick foundation on my face to cover the patches around my eyes and mouth, and excessive layers of fake tan on my body. My skin had complete control of my life.
Then, in November 2025, I signed up for a six-week comedy class. I was nervous, but I got a buzz from the idea of doing something so far outside my comfort zone. During the first few sessions, we had to think about subjects that we could joke about. The one thing that kept coming back to me was vitiligo.
I had spent years trying to disguise it, because I was worried about being judged or spoken about negatively. But as I got older, things started to change. I spent years working on my mindset, and blocking out negative thoughts and the pressure to look a particular way. I connected with the global vitiligo community online, which made me realise that I wasn’t alone, and started publicly advocating and raising awareness. I created an Instagram page called Gifted Skin where I started to share my journey, to help others living with the condition.
The thought of writing a seven-minute comedy sketch about a skin condition that had hugely knocked my confidence when I was growing up felt strange. I wanted people to laugh with me, rather than feel as though I was making light of something that might still be very painful for others. I worried that my material could offend or upset someone in the audience – or simply fall flat.
But the more I thought about the issues around dating with a skin condition, the struggle to form relationships, growing up mixed race with vitiligo, my time at school and how society judged me, the more material I found.
Ambersley on stage at 21 Soho, London. Photograph: Courtesy of Natalie Ambersley
The course sped by and, before I knew it, it was the night of the performance at 21 Soho in central London. When my name was called, I walked up to the stage, acting confident but feeling far from it. I didn’t start with the vitiligo jokes. I wanted to warm up the crowd and earn myself some laughs first.
After a few minutes, I introduced my first joke. I started by telling the audience that I had vitiligo and asking if anyone else in the room did too. There was silence. “Thought as much,” I said, “out here on my own again.” The room filled with laughter and I instantly felt at ease. It was like I was inviting the audience to look into my world with vitiligo, but on my terms. I felt as if I was in control – and it was nerve-racking, funny and unexpectedly liberating.
Some jokes focused on my dating experiences and the unfiltered ways children react to my skin, while others focused on the responses I’ve given when people have asked inappropriate questions. The cheers felt like the biggest sign of approval; as if I was educating the audience and advocating for vitiligo while standing under a spotlight and owning it.
Although I haven’t performed again since, I am keen to explore more open-mic nights. I learned so much about myself that evening but, most of all, I realised that the little girl who wanted to disappear and wished she looked “normal” had become a woman who was proud of who she was. I had chosen to make myself visible in an empowering way. I was never going to shrink myself again.
