Megan Blain, an 18-year-old who’s hooked on sunbeds, says she won’t stop tanning, even though online trolls are constantly insulting her. They’ve compared her skin to a “dirty 2p coin,” but she feels stuck in a tanning habit she can’t break.
Megan, from Seaham, County Durham, started using sunbeds at 16 to keep a tan all year. She ditched fake tan products for daily sunbed sessions and even began using tanning injections to get a darker glow. Although she didn’t know much about the risks, she spent up to 30 minutes on sunbeds, sometimes using baby oil to boost the effect.
Teenager Megan Blain, 18, has admitted to being addicted to sunbeds, despite facing harsh criticism online and noticing concerning changes to her skin
Megan said, “I liked how I looked with a tan. I wear bright colors, and the tan made them stand out more. Once I saw how good it looked, I started going to the sunbeds more often.”
But her intense tanning routine has raised health concerns. Megan now admits she’s addicted and has tried to cut back on sunbed use.
She also says the tanning injections make her feel sick, and she’s noticed a strange patch on her skin that changes size. Even though she’s scared it could be cancer, she hasn’t stopped tanning yet. Megan has tried to go to the doctor several times but gets too nervous to go inside.
“I’m the type of person who worries about everything, so it’s strange that I’m not more worried about this patch. I know it could be melanoma, but I still use sunbeds, which shows it’s an addiction. I never feel dark enough,” she explained.
She says she’s stuck in a cycle of overusing sunbeds and taking injections that make her feel sick and unable to eat. She used to go every day, but now she goes about four times a week.
Despite getting negative attention from strangers, with some saying she looks like a “burnt chip” or a “cremated” version of herself, Megan still can’t imagine life without tanning beds.
Megan said, “Everywhere I go, people stare at me. When they say I’m dark, I don’t believe them. I don’t feel dark at all, like I can’t see it myself.”
She admits she wants to stop using sunbeds one day, but she can’t imagine quitting. “I wouldn’t recommend this to anyone because you could get addicted without even realizing it, like I did,” she warned.
Megan has tried to cut down, now only using sunbeds four times a week, and she’s using her TikTok platform to warn younger people about the dangers of sunbed addiction. She’s especially worried because more young people seem to be using sunbeds than older ones, and she knows how easy it is to get hooked.
However, Megan has also faced online trolls who make fun of her tan. Some compare her to “burnt chips” or say her skin looks like a dirty “2p coin.” One person even asked if the sunbeds “cremated” her.
While Megan’s views on tanning have changed, she still struggles to break her habit of using UV lights.
Megan said, “After two years, I’ve changed my mind about sunbeds. If I could go back, I’d never start. Now, it’s not even about wanting to be tan anymore—I just feel like I have to use them.”
She explained that once she’s on the sunbed, it’s hard to turn it off. “I don’t even like using them anymore, I actually dread it, but I feel like I physically can’t stop.”
Another tanning addict, Fionnghuala Maguire, 35, from Belfast, shared her story, saying she feels “lucky to be alive” after using sunbeds almost every day for 15 years. She started at 14 and never used sunscreen during that time. Fionnghuala is now warning others not to make the same mistake, having been hooked on tanning and going to salons up to seven days a week at the height of her addiction.
I WENT FOR AN ULTRASOUND AND SAW MY HUSBAND HUGGING A PREGNANT WOMAN — SO I SECRETLY FOLLOWED THEM
The ultrasound image, blurry yet undeniably real, still swam before my eyes. Two pink lines. Two tiny flickering lines that promised a future I had yearned for, a future I had almost given up on. After five years of longing, of disappointment, of tears shed in the quiet hours of the night, it was finally happening. I was pregnant.
But the joy that should have consumed me was quickly replaced by a chilling dread. As I walked out of the clinic, my eyes fell upon a scene that shattered my world. Ronald, my husband, stood in the hallway, his arms wrapped around a woman with a swollen belly. It wasn’t just a casual hug; it was a tender, intimate embrace, his hands resting gently on her burgeoning stomach.
A wave of nausea washed over me. Who was she? What was he doing here? The questions raced through my mind, each one sharper than the last. My carefully constructed world, the world I had envisioned with Ronald at the center, was crumbling before my eyes.
Gripping my purse tightly, I felt a surge of adrenaline. I couldn’t just stand there, frozen in disbelief. I had to know. I had to understand.
And so, I did something I never thought I would do. I followed them.
My heart pounded like a drum as I trailed behind them, my breath catching in my throat with every step. They walked slowly, their conversation hushed and intimate. I stayed hidden, peering through shop windows, ducking behind parked cars, feeling like a ghost in their world.
They turned down a narrow street, the houses quaint and old-fashioned. My gaze followed them to a small, two-story house with a rose bush spilling over the fence. This was it. Their destination.
I found a secluded spot across the street, my eyes glued to the window. The living room was cozy, filled with sunlight and the scent of freshly baked bread. They sat on a worn-out sofa, the pregnant woman gently stroking her belly. Ronald leaned in, his face radiating a warmth I had rarely seen directed towards me. He spoke softly, his voice filled with a tenderness that made my chest ache.
“I’m so excited, darling,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “We’re going to be parents.”
The woman smiled, her eyes sparkling. “Me too, love. I can’t wait to meet our little one.”
“Our little one,” he repeated, the word hanging in the air.
The scene before me played out like a cruel, twisted movie. Their happiness, their shared dreams, mirrored my own, yet they were a mockery of my own hopes. I felt a wave of dizziness, the world tilting precariously on its axis.
As the afternoon wore on, I watched them. They laughed, they argued playfully, they planned for the future. I saw a love story unfold before my eyes, a love story that did not include me.
Finally, as dusk began to settle, they left the house, hand in hand. I watched them walk down the street, their silhouettes bathed in the fading light. And as they disappeared from view, I was left alone with the shattered pieces of my heart.
The walk back to my apartment was a blur. The joy of my pregnancy, the hope that had bloomed within me, felt like a distant memory. Betrayal, anger, and a deep, suffocating sadness consumed me. How could he? How could he do this to me?
That night, I cried myself to sleep, the ultrasound image of my tiny baby a bittersweet reminder of the shattered dreams. The next morning, I woke up with a resolve I didn’t know I possessed. I would not be a victim. I would fight for myself, for my baby, and for the future I had always envisioned.
The road ahead was uncertain, filled with pain and uncertainty. But I knew, deep down, that I would find my way. I would heal, I would be strong, and I would build a life for myself and my child, a life filled with love, joy, and happiness, a life that had nothing to do with him.
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