Why Are Women Changing The Way They Look? Ft. Dr. Saman Waseem

This one is a conversation I sat down for with Dr. Saman Waseem, a dermatologist and aesthetic physician who has been in this field for over 15 years. We talk about her personal and professional life, how she ended up making her own clinic, and the moments that shaped her. But what stays with me is the honesty around the mental health crisis that has come with beauty standards, and why so many women are changing the way they look for reasons that have nothing to do with themselves.

Becoming a doctor was never my dream

Saman tells me she was born and raised in Islamabad. She went to Fatima Jinnah Medical College for her MBBS, did her house job, got married, had kids, all in Islamabad. But she never wanted to be a doctor. “I was so scared of doctors that I had no interest at all,” she says. Her father was very particular: either become a doctor or get married. So under that pressure, she went into medicine. After finishing, she thought, okay, now I’ll get married and just be at home. She took a break of a few years after marriage, but then boredom set in, and her father’s voice came back: you have studied, you have to come out of it. Her husband also pushed her, saying it’s enough, because in a joint family, everyone takes you for granted. “The doctor daughter-in-law is also a very good multitasker,” she laughs. So after five years, she started her training in dermatology.

If she could choose again, she says she would have been a teacher or started an NGO. Social work and being with people is what she loves. But now she sees that being a doctor is also noble and rewarding. “I realize it now, not back then when I was reading those thick books and crying in the hostel.” She spent five years crying in the hostel in Lahore, a seven-hour journey from home before the motorway existed. But now she tells every child of hers: you must go to a hostel. “What you learn in a hostel, you cannot learn at home no matter how much education you get. You learn soft skills, independence, a sense of empowerment.”

The thankless job of a housewife

After marriage, Saman thought she would just sit at home and keep her husband and in-laws happy. But she soon realized that a household woman, no matter how educated, has a thankless job. “At the end of the day, the same questions: what did you cook, why is the salt too much or too little, why wasn’t the cleaning done properly, why did the groceries run out. You are always into it, and it’s a never-ending story.” She felt that if she didn’t work, she would be taken for granted. Her parents were a huge support, taking care of her kids while she went for training and conferences. But her in-laws’ situation was difficult: just one month after her marriage, her father-in-law had a bypass and went into a coma at 53. He remained in a coma for four years. “That whole house, even if it was normal, was not normal then. Everyone was either crying or sitting or just counseling about what will happen.” She says it was so traumatic that she felt it could have been her own father. So at that time, she can’t say she got much support from that side, but her own parents were always there, telling her to take care of everyone and not let them get hurt. After her father-in-law passed away and things started to normalize, she thought, now is the right time.

She chose dermatology because there were no night duties, so home wouldn’t be affected. Initially she found it boring, but when she ventured into aesthetics, it was just starting in Pakistan. People would come and ask for pigmentation treatment, lasers, and it became fun. She started working at Shifa International Hospital, where she waited for a week for her first patient. Someone gave her a tip: come every day, even if there is no patient, read a book, show your presence. She did that for a year, and then her OPD grew. “Word of mouth, one patient told four, and it kept growing.”

A near-death experience and a son I never thought I’d have

Saman shares a deeply personal story that still shakes me. After her Hajj, she found herself pregnant, unplanned. She already had three daughters. She tried everything to abort, but her mother especially said no, I will raise the child. The fear was not just an unplanned pregnancy, but the societal pressure: what if it’s another daughter? “I used to cry every night. I thought, I went for Hajj to ask for forgiveness, and Allah put me in another test. I believed there was some weakness in me, that I could not have a son.” She couldn’t even ask the gender. Her gynecologist friend would offer to tell her, and she would start crying, “Please don’t tell me, I know it’s a girl.” She counseled herself constantly, how will I live in society? In the seventh month, her anxiety shot up her blood pressure. Her husband was supportive, always saying he had no issue, but she couldn’t face it. Then someone told her to wake up for Fajr, recite certain surahs, and just pray. She did, crying through it. Her father told her, “This time, your father’s prayer is with you.” Eventually, her doctor friend told her it was a boy. She didn’t believe it. Even when they showed her ultrasound pictures, she said no, it can’t be. On the day of the planned C-section, she was terrified. When the baby was delivered and her husband cried, “It’s a boy,” she felt her heartbeat stop for seconds, then everything was okay. But just after, her blood pressure dropped drastically, and she went into shock. She had an internal bleed that no one picked up for two days. Her hemoglobin was five. She messaged her husband, “I am going into shock and I don’t know if I will recover.” She also messaged her anesthetist, Dr. Salman. She blacked out. When she woke up, she was in the ICU, on a ventilator. She heard people around her talking about death certificates, and she wondered when her turn would come. “Being a doctor and treated so badly, I was so disappointed. We take an oath, we all become doctors, we earn money, but on humanity grounds we are so brutal.” She had multiple surgeries, a vessel had been cut during the C-section, and she lost two liters of blood. A surgeon, Dr. Ghulam Siddiq, who didn’t even know her, performed a three-hour surgery, took out her intestines, and saved her. He visited her every morning at 7, even though she couldn’t speak. She spent 15 days in the hospital, and the first sip of water after that was the most delicious thing she ever tasted. A month later, she was back in her OPD, and her patients doubled, tripled. She gave five more years to Shifa, then when they refused to start an aesthetics department, she started her own clinic, Derma Bless.

Why are women changing the way they look?

Saman and I talk about the shift in aesthetics. When she started, it was new, and people didn’t know much. She was a pioneer, introducing PRP, threads, peels. But now, the demand has exploded, and the intentions behind it worry her. “Internationally, aesthetics is about ‘me, I, and myself.’ I like this, I want to look like this. Here, at the national level, it’s more about: if I’m not married, my color is why rishtas aren’t coming. My mother says, you have pimples, it’s affecting proposals. After marriage, the husband says, why does your face look like this, others don’t. Make me like that. After pregnancy, why aren’t you back in shape?” She tells me about a patient whose husband compared her to a 20-year-old receptionist. A young girl came wanting to look Chinese because her husband had a Chinese girlfriend. “I counseled her so much, I said it’s not about Chinese features, it’s about his insecurities. Please come out of it. She cried and cried, but I didn’t do the procedure.” Saman says she often refuses patients when she feels the reason is not for themselves. “We need to say no. We should not just earn money from aesthetics. We have to walk very carefully.” She sees young girls, even 20-year-olds, wanting anti-aging treatments, fillers, Botox. “They say, I want to start anti-aging now. I tell them, no need. But they don’t listen. They’ll go somewhere else.” The comparison on social media has made insecurities worse. “People see models and think they can look like that. But the pressure is also built inside women. Even if someone praises them, they don’t believe it because their self-worth is so low.” She shares her own insecurity when she joined her in-laws, who were very pretty people. “They always said how beautiful they were. I felt so ugly, so thin, so bad. But when I started working, patients began to praise me, and slowly I realized beauty is not just about being very fair or having certain features. It’s a mixture of many things.” She now tells women: please think about it. You will never be able to keep everyone happy. Do procedures for yourself, not because someone else wants you to.

Small things that matter for your skin

We also talk about the basics of skincare. Saman keeps it simple: sunscreen every single day, even when it’s cloudy. “At least two fingers’ worth for the face, and don’t forget the neck. Repeat every two to three hours.” Vitamin C serum in the morning, then sunscreen. At night, a good cleanse, toner, and moisturizer. For acne-prone skin, oil-free, water-based moisturizers. She says retinol is hyped, but she usually starts it after 30. “Start twice a week, gradually. Don’t overdo it. And always, always remove your makeup properly.” She emphasizes that genetics play a big role, but these basics help delay the need for injectables. “If you maintain well, you might avoid a lot of treatments later.”

This conversation matters because

Saman’s story is not just about aesthetics. It’s about a woman who almost died bringing a son she never thought she could have, who built a career from a hostel room full of tears, and who now sits with patients and often cries with them because she sees how deeply societal pressure cuts. She reminds us that the small things, like wearing sunscreen or saying no to a procedure that isn’t for you, are acts of self-care. But the bigger thing is this: we need to ask ourselves, why are we changing the way we look? Is it for us, or because we’ve been told we’re not enough? I hope this conversation gives you a moment to reflect on that, gently, without judgment.