I cannot remember the first time I was told that fair skin was beautiful. What I remember is growing up with the impression that everyone already knew it.

In Ilocos, where I spent my childhood, conversations about appearance were part of ordinary life. A lighter complexion was something to admire. Clear skin invited compliments, while blemishes and uneven texture often invited advice. Outside our home, beauty seemed to have a particular set of physical qualities, and people rarely hesitated to point out when someone possessed them, or when they did not.

I remember seeing my sister buy skin-lightening creams. There was nothing unusual about it. Whitening products were widely available, and wanting to become fairer was an aspiration familiar enough to require little explanation. I did not question why someone would want to change their natural complexion. At the time, I assumed that this was simply what taking care of one's appearance meant.

By high school, I had become more conscious of how these ideas shaped the people around me. My schoolmates were familiar with whitening soaps, facial cleansers, and creams that promised a lighter, clearer complexion. Products were recommended, compared, and replaced with remarkable enthusiasm. Some spent thousands of pesos pursuing the results they saw in advertisements. We were still young, yet many of us had already learned to examine our faces for things that could be improved.

Eventually, I joined them.

I began buying men's grooming products and experimenting with different skincare routines. I wanted lighter skin, fewer imperfections, and the confidence I imagined would come with both. The advertisements made these ambitions appear entirely reasonable. Some promised visible changes in as little as seven days, and I believed them with the impatience of someone who had not yet learned how easily hope could be packaged and sold.

When the results failed to appear, I moved on to another product. Sometimes I changed creams or cleansers within weeks, rarely allowing myself enough time to understand whether something was actually working. Each purchase brought a renewed expectation, followed by another disappointment.

What troubled me was not simply the money I spent. I had begun using skincare because I wanted to feel better about myself, yet the process made me increasingly conscious of my appearance. I was willing to question my skin long before I thought to question the promises made about it.

Then there were the comments.

Filipinos have a particular familiarity with discussing other people's appearances, especially during family gatherings. Skin color, facial texture, and weight can become subjects of conversation as casually as someone's work or studies. I remember feeling uncomfortable when people commented on my complexion or the texture of my skin. The conversation might have lasted only a moment, but the discomfort sometimes stayed with me much longer.

I do not think every remark was intended to hurt. In many families, these observations are so commonplace that people scarcely consider how they might be received. But repetition has a way of giving ordinary words an authority they do not necessarily deserve.

For years, I considered my pursuit of fairer skin a personal choice. I wanted to look a certain way, and skincare appeared to offer the means of getting there.

Only later did I begin to wonder how much of that desire had actually originated with me.

The complexion we learned to admire

The preference for lighter skin in the Philippines did not begin with modern skincare advertising. Our ideas about complexion have been shaped by a complicated history involving social class, labor, colonial influences, and cultural perceptions of beauty. These associations have changed across generations, but their traces remain visible in the faces selected for advertisements, the language used to describe attractiveness, and the products that continue to occupy our shelves.

What interests me is how naturally we inherit these ideas.

The Philippines is home to people with a broad range of skin tones. Some Filipinos are naturally fair, others have medium or morena complexions, and others have deeper brown skin. This diversity reflects our genetics and ancestry. There is no single complexion that defines what Filipino skin should look like.

Yet we have often been presented with a narrower picture of what Filipino beauty ought to be.

Studying pharmacy eventually gave me another way to understand this contradiction. It taught me the biological reality of what I had spent years trying to change. Melanin is not an aesthetic flaw waiting to be corrected. It is a pigment that contributes to our natural skin color and provides some protection against ultraviolet radiation. Although naturally darker skin offers a degree of protection, no complexion is immune to sun damage. The biology of pigmentation is one thing. The social value we assign to it is something else entirely.

I began noticing how easily cosmetic advertising could turn a normal physical characteristic into a perceived disadvantage. A darker complexion might be presented as something to brighten. Natural texture could become a flaw to eliminate. The language of improvement often suggested that the person using the product was moving toward something inherently more desirable.

The beauty industry does not invent every insecurity it addresses. Many preferences are formed through family, community, and culture long before a consumer encounters an advertisement. But an industry can reinforce those preferences, give them commercial value, and offer products as a way of satisfying them.

I recognize that people pursue cosmetic changes for different reasons. Wanting lighter skin does not necessarily mean someone dislikes themselves, and I would not presume to judge another person's decisions about their appearance. Personal autonomy matters.

Still, it is worth asking what happens when a preference is reinforced so consistently that it begins to resemble an obligation.

For some consumers, that obligation can translate into years of expensive skincare regimens, repeated purchases of lightening products, or the pursuit of treatments such as intravenous glutathione for skin whitening, despite concerns about the evidence supporting its efficacy and the potential risks of its use for cosmetic purposes. The conversation surrounding these approaches can become so focused on the desired appearance that questions of safety, necessity, and realistic outcomes receive less attention.

When I think about my own experience, I remember how little I understood about the skin I was trying to change. I knew which complexion I wanted long before I understood what my skin needed.

That distinction has stayed with me.

What a label cannot tell us

Training as a pharmacist changed the way I approached skincare. I became interested in how formulations worked rather than simply what their packaging promised. Ingredients had specific functions. Concentrations mattered. The integrity of the skin barrier, formulation stability, and differences in individual tolerance became far more compelling to me than the appeal of an immediate cosmetic transformation.

I also learned how limited universal skincare recommendations could be.

A product that feels comfortable on one person's skin may irritate another. Similar concerns do not always require identical approaches, and the same formulation may perform differently depending on skin condition, environmental exposure, and the other products used alongside it. Climate adds another consideration, particularly in a country where tropical heat, humidity, and everyday sun exposure shape how people experience skincare.

This is especially worth remembering in an industry where beauty trends move easily across borders.

Consider the popularity of glass skin. What began as a particular aesthetic became a global aspiration, often represented through images of extraordinarily smooth, luminous complexions. There is nothing wrong with admiring such an appearance. The difficulty begins when an aesthetic trend is mistaken for a universal standard of skin health.

Visible pores are normal. Skin has texture. Pigmentation varies. A healthy complexion need not resemble the surface of an advertisement, and the absence of a particular aesthetic quality does not indicate a biological deficiency.

I wish I had understood this when I was younger. I might have paid more attention to what my skin was experiencing instead of concentrating almost entirely on how I wanted it to look.

For someone with naturally morena skin, a thoughtful routine might center on maintaining hydration, supporting the skin barrier, managing acne, or addressing post-inflammatory hyperpigmentation without attempting to alter their natural skin tone. Someone with fair skin may have different needs. The purpose of skincare should be informed by the person using it, not merely by the aesthetic that happens to be in season.

When my sister and I began developing Russ & Rose, I found myself considering these questions from the other side of the counter. We had grown up in the same environment, surrounded by many of the same ideas about beauty. Now, as co-founders, we were responsible for developing products and considering the expectations those products might create.

I was no longer only a consumer reading labels. I was becoming responsible for the decisions behind them.

Product development revealed how much nuance an ingredient list leaves unexplained. Two formulations may feature the same botanical ingredient on their labels yet rely on different preparations, grades, or concentrations. Even when raw materials appear comparable, the overall formulation matters: the way ingredients are combined, the compatibility of the components, the product's stability, and how it performs during use all influence the experience of the finished product.

I learned to be skeptical of the assumption that longer ingredient lists mean greater efficacy, or that a higher price automatically guarantees superior performance. Raw materials, manufacturing requirements, testing, packaging, and production scale contribute to what a product costs, but they do not independently establish what it will accomplish for someone's skin.

We chose to work in relatively small production batches, reflecting the scale of our business and our approach to managing production and inventory. I do not regard small-batch production as proof of superiority. Quality depends on appropriate formulation, manufacturing controls, product stability, testing, and the consistent performance of the finished product.

These considerations made me more appreciative of how much work exists behind a skincare product. They also made me more critical of the assumptions we sometimes make as consumers.

An ingredient list can tell us what is declared to be inside a bottle. It cannot, by itself, tell us how that formulation will perform on our skin, nor can it tell us whether we needed the product in the first place.

On the other side of the promise

There is an inherent tension in questioning the beauty industry's influence while building a business within it.

Russ & Rose is a commercial enterprise. We need customers, revenue, and sustainable operations. We have to articulate why someone should choose our formulations in a crowded market. I understand the commercial appeal of ambitious claims, particularly when attention is scarce and consumers are constantly presented with new products.

I also know how easily persuasion can cross into exaggeration.

A cream that promises a transformed complexion in seven days may attract more immediate attention than one designed to maintain hydration and support the skin barrier. A cleanser promising poreless perfection sounds more exciting than one that simply removes impurities without excessively stripping the skin.

But excitement and usefulness are not necessarily the same thing.

Having once been the teenager who believed those seven-day promises, I am aware of the weight a few words on a box can carry. They shape not only how a person spends their money but potentially how they judge their own reflection when the expected results fail to appear.

What concerns me is the point at which offering a choice turns into encouraging dissatisfaction.

At Russ & Rose, we aim to describe our products according to their intended functions, avoiding claims that go beyond what can reasonably be supported. This also requires acknowledging that no formulation is universally suitable. An ingredient that is well tolerated by one person may cause irritation or sensitivity in another.

As a pharmacist, communicating those limitations is part of responsible practice. As a founder, I recognize that such restraint can feel counterintuitive when the objective is to make a sale.

We are still learning how to navigate that tension.

I do not believe that developing a skincare brand automatically gives us a better understanding of beauty than the people who use our products. Nor does having a pharmaceutical background make every decision we take unquestionable. We remain participants in a commercial industry, and our responsibility means something only if we are willing to examine our own practices.

There are times when the commercial interests of a business and the needs of a consumer may not align perfectly. Recognizing that possibility is an important part of deciding what kind of brand we want to build.

A founder must think about what makes a product sell. Equally, we must think about what a person has been led to believe about themselves before deciding to buy it.

“A founder must think about what makes a product sell. Equally, we must think about what a person has been led to believe about themselves before deciding to buy it.”

The value of what remains unchanged

For much of my adolescence, I understood skincare almost entirely through the idea of correction.

A product was supposed to make my skin lighter, clearer, or visibly different. If nothing changed in the mirror, I assumed the product had failed. I rarely considered that maintaining the skin's condition might be the purpose of using it.

The vocabulary of beauty still favors transformation. Products promise to brighten, resurface, correct, renew, and restore. These functions can have legitimate uses, and many people have concerns they wish to address. Yet a routine built entirely around visible improvement can make ordinary maintenance feel insufficient.

I have come to appreciate how much of skincare is concerned with preservation.

A cleanser can serve its purpose by removing accumulated oil, dirt, and impurities without unnecessarily disrupting the skin. A moisturizer can help reduce transepidermal water loss and maintain the skin's hydration and barrier function. Sunscreen provides protection against the damaging effects of ultraviolet radiation, even when its benefits are not immediately visible.

These are valuable functions that do not necessarily produce dramatic before-and-after photographs.

Sometimes, the absence of a dramatic result is not evidence that a product has failed. It may mean that the product is fulfilling an important, less visible purpose.

Care does not have to begin with dissatisfaction.

“Care does not have to begin with dissatisfaction.”

This conviction influences how we approach Russ & Rose. I want people to understand what our formulations are intended to do without feeling that purchasing them requires first identifying something wrong with themselves.

It is a less dramatic way to discuss beauty, perhaps. Maintenance rarely attracts the attention that transformation does. A well-functioning skin barrier is not always something we notice, and a comfortable complexion may not inspire the same excitement as a promise of visible change within days.

But the less spectacular aspects of skincare are not necessarily less meaningful.

Much of what we do to care for our bodies involves maintaining their condition rather than changing their appearance. We do not need to be dissatisfied with something before deciding that it deserves attention.

The same can be true of our skin.

What I carry forward

When I think about growing up in Ilocos, I remember how unremarkable these experiences seemed at the time. The whitening products, the recommendations exchanged among schoolmates, the comments made during gatherings, and the advertisements promising fairer skin were simply part of the environment in which I grew up.

I did not question them because they were everywhere.

I learned what was admired and tried, as many young people do, to move closer to it.

Years later, my relationship with skincare has become more considered. Pharmacy taught me to understand and respect the biology of the skin. Building a brand has taught me to consider the influence of the words we choose to describe what a skincare product can accomplish.

People deserve the freedom to enjoy cosmetics, address the concerns that bother them, and take pleasure in their daily routines. I do not believe accepting one's natural characteristics requires abandoning the desire for change. Nor do I think we should dictate what someone else is permitted to find beautiful.

What I question is the expectation that we should all be moving toward the same ideal, especially when that ideal has so little room for the natural differences among us.

No one should have to inherit the belief that their complexion is a problem waiting to be solved.

I do not expect our small brand to change generations of beauty standards. Such expectations are shaped by influences far greater than any single business. But I believe there is value in being attentive to the messages we contribute, the claims we choose to make, and the assumptions we leave unchallenged.

I often think about the teenager I once was, moving from one product to another, convinced that the next purchase might finally deliver the skin I had been taught to want.

At that age, I looked to skincare labels for promises about who I might become.

Today, I help decide what goes onto labels of our own. I do not take that reversal lightly.

The skin we were taught to want is not necessarily the skin we need. And whenever we formulate a product or write the words that accompany it, I return to something that took me years to understand:

We can offer people a way to care for their skin without first giving them a reason to dislike it.

Rustan Sagun is a licensed pharmacist and co-founder of Russ & Rose, a Philippine skincare brand developed with a focus on thoughtful formulation and skin barrier care.

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