/ This post is in English; for the Chinese version review, please click on the link below）：-
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My Journey with McCTILL Hyaluronic Rose Hydration Essence & Deep Hydro Mask: Healing Eczema with Real Damascus Rose
The day the parcel arrives, I’m already half-dead from scratching my face off. My skin is so dry, and I look like an ancient scroll that someone forgot to roll back up. I peel myself off the bed—literally peel, because eczema is clingy like that—and limp to the door with the grace of a zombie auditioning for Black Swan.
I open the box.
Cue angels.
Cue harp.
Cue that one dramatic tear rolling down my flake-crusted cheek.
Inside? Two elegantly blushing bottles of McCTILL Hyaluronic Rose Hydration Essence and McCTILL Hyaluronic Rose Deep Hydro Mask—names longer than my last relationship but promising more commitment.
Step One: The McCTILL Hyaluronic Rose Hydration Essence
I unscrew the cap like I’m defusing a bomb—cautiously, reverently. PTSD from Taiwanese synthetic “rose” products has taught me to expect betrayal. One whiff and—
OH. MY. ROSE. GOD.
This isn’t just a scent. The scent is a reminder of my childhood. The smell of a ghost of an Arabian grandmother I never met whispering, “Welcome back, habibti.”
It smells like actual Damascus roses—delicate, soft, the kind that doesn’t scream “cheap perfume aisle at Watsons.” It smells like someone crushed a thousand rose petals with their bare hands and mixed it with the tears of every woman who’s ever longed to be held.
I pour it onto my palm. The texture is like moonlight turned into water. It’s not sticky. It doesn’t just sit there like a clingy ex. The essense absorbs like my skin‘s been waiting its whole life for this exact moment.
And the sensation?
OH.
MY.
FLAKES.
My face drinks it. No, it gulps like it’s been crawling through Canadian winter for 40 days and 40 nights. The tightness I’ve learned to ignore as “normal” suddenly lifts. My cheeks, which usually crack like old vinyl when I smile, feel plump. Soft. Juicy. Like I’m one step away from becoming a walking peach emoji.
I look in the mirror.
Dewy. Glowy. Alive.
Not one flake in sight.
I don’t trust it. This is too good to be true.
I slap my face again. It’s still there. The moisture. The light.
Step Two: The McCTILL Hyaluronic Rose Deep Hydro Mask (Hydrating Gel Mask)
McCTILL Hyaluronic Rose Deep Hydro Mask
Fast forward to the night. It’s eczema hour—aka when my face starts burning like I pissed off a fire god. I reach for the second product, the “McCTILL Hyaluronic Rose Deep Hydro Mask,” with the desperation of a woman who’s tried every steroid cream known to man.
I open the lid. The gel is translucent and blushing pink—like the first flush of a shy bride. Petals are suspended inside like tiny secrets. I scoop a bit.
It goes on cold, smooth, and wet AF, like falling face-first into a dew-covered rose garden at 5am—naked. I smear it on generously because I deserve it, and because self-control died with my last pimple patch.
Now I wait.
The scent again—God bless. It’s that same real rose. Soft. Comforting. Like a Persian lullaby. Not perfumey. Not fake. Just… pure.
Five minutes in, I’m convinced this is holy water. Ten minutes in, I’m contemplating my sins because the scent of “real” roses reminds me of my biggest sin: breaking my mom’s heart.
There’s something about this box that feels different. It’s not just a box.
Like it’s an apology.
Like it’s a homecoming.
My Story: Running Away and Finding Home
But let’s rewind.
I ran away from home at 13.
Not in a dramatic, movie-scene kind of way.
No storming out. No slamming doors.
Just a quiet disappearance and never looking back.
One day, I decided the world was safer than my own house.
That maybe eating garbage food on the street was better than swallowing silence at the dinner table.
That maybe cheap mascara and expired face masks from shady night markets could mask the ache inside a puberty I had no one to guide me through.
Puberty hit me like a damn freight train.
Acne, eczema, boobs growing at different speeds, and zero money for decent skincare.
I survived on convenience store bentos, expired lip gloss, and relentless self-loathing.
Every zit was a battle.
Every crack on my face was a war wound.
I didn’t have a mom handing me sheet masks or reminding me to drink more water.
Because I thought she hated me.
I was sure of it.
She was getting busy with her career where other people’s children were her priority, teaching a language I could barely pronounce—living the scholarly dream while I was smearing glue-stick foundation over cystic acne.
She never called.
I never reached out.
We became strangers who shared DNA.
I built my identity around the absence of her.
I told myself I didn’t need her.
Didn’t need anyone.
Until one day, years later—crippled by chronic dryness, eczema, and a stroke of ironic divine comedy—I let her back in.
She came back into my life quietly.
The way water seeps into a desert without asking for permission.
The Meaning Behind the Box
Which brings us back to the box.
Flashback to the first “real” rose essence oil I’ve touched since childhood.
And it came from her.
From my mom.
She gave it to me.
No note. No emoji.
Just a bottle of genuine hydration and history.
I twist the cap, not expecting miracles.
But the scent hits me like a punch to the soul.
It’s her.
The scent of my childhood.
Of the Middle East.
Of morning prayers and afternoon tea.
Of my mother in a cotton abaya, lecturing PhD students and forgetting to eat lunch.
I hold the bottle and cry like an idiot.
Like that 13-year-old who didn’t know how to ask for help.
Like that girl who thought being tough meant being alone.
Turns out, she never hated me.
She just didn’t know how to love me in a place where I couldn’t be found.
And I didn’t know how to let her try.
I slap the essence on my face between sniffles.
The texture is divine—like angel tears and hydration had a baby.
It soaks in with no stickiness and no residue. Just moisture and forgiveness.
Then the gel mask—cool, silky, pure therapy.
I let it sit like a confession.
And when I rinse it off, it’s not just the gunk and dryness washing away.
It’s shame.
It’s grief.
It’s the thousand “I’m sorrys” we both never said.
Fifteen minutes in, I’m texting my ex just to say,
“Look what you lost.”
After 20 minutes, I rinse it off. My skin?
Butter.
Gloss.
A newborn dolphin.
I am glistening like a K-drama heroine in slow motion. My eczema is tamed, and the redness has vanished. That one patch of dry skin that usually flakes off like Parmesan cheese is smooth, hydrated, and redeemed.
Final Thoughts
I’ve been lied to for most of my life. Taiwan made me believe all rose products were either fake, fragrant landfill juice or overpriced lies in glass jars. But these two products? These two little miracles?
They restored my faith.
Not just in skincare.
But in life.
I’m still the same dry, itchy, eczema-ridden, desert-born, winter-cursed girl—
But now I’m hydrated.
And I smell like the romantic subplot of a Turkish drama.
Would I recommend them?
Yes.
To everyone.
To your mom.
To your ex.
To your cat.
To the next girl crying in the mirror, wondering why her face feels like sandpaper—this one’s for you, babe.
Get the rose.
Be the rose.
Bloom. 💀🌹✨
Grab Yours:
https://www1.oeya.com.tw/3L9NT
