I did what every woman does. I threw money at the problem.
I started with patches. The gold ones. The pink ones. The collagen ones everybody was posting about on TikTok.
They felt cold and lovely for ten minutes and then did exactly nothing.
I bought a caffeine eye serum that promised to "de-puff instantly." It stung. It smelled like burnt coffee. It gave me nothing.
I tried a $68 eye cream from a department store. A $34 one from the drugstore. A "viral" Korean one a coworker swore by. Three different Vitamin C serums. A "cooling ceramic wand" I still have in a drawer somewhere.
I drank 96 ounces of water a day for a month. I cut wine entirely. I bought silk pillowcases. I slept on two pillows to "drain the lymphatic fluid." I did cold plunges on my face in the morning. I did face yoga from a YouTube channel with 2 million subscribers.
Nothing moved the needle. Not even a little.
So I did what I swore I'd never do.
I booked a consultation at a medspa 20 minutes from my office. A nice one. Clean, expensive, good reviews.
The nurse practitioner examined me under a magnifying lamp and spoke with the confidence of someone who had said this exact sentence 4,000 times: "You're a great candidate. A little Botox for the crow's feet, and tear trough filler underneath to fill the hollows. You'd look like yourself again in about a week."
She slid a printed quote across the desk.
$1,400. Touch ups every four months. Possible bruising for 7–14 days. Possible lumps that would need to be "massaged out." Possible migration. Possible, she said this lightly, like she was mentioning the weather, the "overfilled" look if I ever decided to stop.
I thanked her, took the quote, walked to my car, sat down in the driver's seat, and cried so hard my mascara stained the steering wheel.
I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready for needles in my face. I wasn't ready to start something I couldn't stop. I wasn't ready to become a woman who had to book maintenance appointments to keep looking like herself.
But I also didn't know what else there was.