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Yesterday I told my daughter I was giving up. Not giving up on losing weight. Not giving up on eating healthier. No — I was giving up on ever feeling comfortable in my own body. That sentence came out while I was standing in my bedroom. It was early morning. My nightgown was lifted, and I was staring at that angry red skin where my belly folds over. And I just started crying. Not quietly. Really crying. Shoulders shaking. Snot on my upper lip. My daughter said nothing. She just held my hand. She knew. She had the same body type. The same skin. The same summers full of shame. If you're reading this, I probably don't need to explain what I mean. You know that burning sensation under your belly. That red, raw patch where your stomach folds over your waistband. The smell you don't talk about — not even to your husband. The tissues you stuff in your underwear because you don't know what else to do. You know the shame. I lived with this problem for 18 years. Eighteen years. Since my fifties, when my body changed after menopause and the weight settled around my middle. And all that time, I thought it was my fault. The lie I told myself I thought: if only I was cleaner. If only I dried better after showering. If only I lost weight. If only my belly was flatter. The doctor said it too. "Try losing weight." As if I hadn't been trying for twenty years. As if my body was a problem I needed to solve by becoming smaller. So I washed twice a day. I blow-dried under my belly fold. I sprinkled baby powder like it was holy water. I tried Sudocrem, zinc ointment, Canesten, and hydrocortisone. Everything the pharmacy had. And every time it worked for a few days. Maybe a week. And then it came back. Worse than before. Rock bottom Last summer was the worst. We had a family reunion. My grandson was turning five. I had bought a lovely summer dress — flowing, comfortable, exactly what I hadn't dared to wear in years. But that morning, when I put on my underwear, I winced in pain. The skin where my belly meets my waistband had cracked. Raw. Weeping. As if someone had rubbed sandpaper under my stomach. I couldn't wear the dress. I wore loose black trousers with an elastic waistband. In July. At a garden party. In the photos, I see myself standing at the edge, arms crossed over my stomach, while everyone laughs. I'm smiling too. But my eyes are empty. That evening I cried in my bedroom. My husband asked what was wrong. I couldn't explain. How do you explain that you're trapped in a body you hate? That you're ashamed of something you have no control over? Everything I tried Let me save you what doesn't work. Because I tried it all. Baby powder. The classic. Everyone recommends it. But by midday you have a sticky white paste under your belly that smells even worse than what you were trying to hide. And the worst part? I read later that talc can actually feed fungal growth. I was literally feeding the problem. Deodorant. "Just use deodorant!" a friend said. The alcohol burned so badly I had tears in my eyes. And the dry, cracked skin that followed was even more painful than the irritation itself. Prescription creams. The GP gave me Daktacort. Use for two weeks, maximum. It helped — god, how it helped. Finally relief. But after two weeks I had to stop. And within three days everything was back. Worse than before. Tissues in my underwear. This is the point where you know you're desperate. Stuffing wads of kitchen paper under your belly fold as if you're trying to patch a leak. They shift constantly. They get wet and fall apart. And you feel like a 67-year-old woman who doesn't even know how to take care of her own body. I had given up. Truly given up. My daughter And then, that morning in my bedroom, my daughter picked up her phone. "I want to show you something," she said. She had the same problems as me. For years. But in recent months I hadn't heard her complain. I thought she had just stopped talking about it. But no. She had stopped suffering. She showed me her skin. Under her belly. Where her stomach folds over. Smooth. No redness. No irritation. Just... normal skin. "How?" I asked. She pulled a small stick from her handbag. What I never understood My daughter explained something that changed everything. She said: "The problem isn't that you're not clean enough. The problem is friction." Friction damages the skin. Every time you move, sit down, stand up, walk — your skin rubs against itself. Your belly folds over. Your waistband digs in. Tiny tears form. Invisible, but they're there. Then comes the moisture. You sweat, of course — everyone sweats. But that moisture gets trapped in those tiny tears. In those warm, dark folds. And that's where bacteria grow. Fungi. That's where the smell comes from. That's where the redness comes from. "Powder only dries," she said. "It doesn't stop the friction. Cream only treats the infection — not the cause. That's why it keeps coming back." I stood there with my mouth open. For eighteen years I had been fighting the symptoms. Never the cause. The stick The stick my daughter gave me is called DermaUnder. It was developed by a dermatologist. Not by a marketing company that slaps "natural ingredients" on the packaging. By someone who saw this problem every day in her practice. And it works differently than anything I had tried. It creates a protective layer. No sticky powder. No greasy cream. An invisible barrier that prevents friction and regulates moisture. But most importantly: you can use it on skin that's already irritated. Most products say: "Do not use it on damaged skin." But when do I not have damaged skin? That's the whole problem. DermaUnder is different. It protects and helps heal. At the same time. The first days I was skeptical. After 18 years of disappointments you don't trust anything anymore. But I ordered it because my daughter looked too good to ignore. Day 1: I applied it in the morning, under my belly fold. It felt smooth. Not sticky. Not greasy. Just... smooth. By midday I was waiting for that familiar burning. It didn't come. Day 3: I looked in the mirror and the redness was less. Not gone — but less. For the first time in months I saw improvement instead of deterioration. Day 7: No more tissues in my underwear. No more extra changes at work. No more excuses to my husband about why I didn't want to be close. Day 14: I put on that summer dress. The one I had hidden in my wardrobe. And I didn't feel ashamed. The moment Last week it happened. I was standing in front of the mirror in the morning. The same bedroom where I had cried. But this time I lifted my nightgown and saw... nothing. No redness. No cracks. No weeping. No dark patches. Just skin. Normal, healthy skin. I cried again. But this time they were different tears. My husband came into the room. "Are you okay?" he asked. I turned around and showed him. For the first time in years I let him see my body without shame. "I'm free," I said. He didn't fully understand. But he held me. And that was enough. Why this is different I understood later why DermaUnder worked where everything else failed. Powder and deodorant only treat moisture. But moisture isn't the problem — moisture is a symptom. Antifungal cream only treats the infection. But the infection isn't the problem either — it only develops after the skin is already damaged. The cause is friction. And DermaUnder stops the friction. It's so simple that I got angry. Angry at all the doctors who told me to lose weight. Angry at all the products that treated the symptoms and ignored the cause. For 18 years I blamed myself. For 18 years I thought my body was the problem. But it was never my body. It was never my weight. It was never my hygiene. It was simply friction. And now the friction is gone. If you were like me If you're reading this and you recognize yourself — those years of shame, the endless attempts, the tears in your bedroom — then I know exactly where you are. You're tired. Tired of hoping. Tired of disappointments. Tired of products that promise and don't deliver. I was there too. I had given up. But here's what I want to tell you: your body is not the problem. You were never the problem. You just had the wrong solution. Just like me. DermaUnder gave me my life back. My summers back. My dignity back. And if it doesn't work? You get your money back. No questions. No hassle. But it's going to work. Because it addresses the cause. Not the symptoms. I wish someone had told me this ten years ago. Then I would have had ten years of my life back. This is me telling you. Now. You deserve to be comfortable in your own body. Today. Not when you lose weight. Not when you have a flatter stomach. Now. My daughter was right. And now I'm passing it on to you. — — — — Patricia, 67, Dallas