When we were kids, we had a little trick — the kind of thing only siblings or sneaky friends would try. We’d lean in close and whisper, “Your epidermis is showing.” That fancy-sounding word usually triggered mild panic. Hands would fly to zippers. Shirt fronts were tugged. Once, someone even turned around in a circle. But the truth was: their skin was showing. Of course it was — everyone’s is. But the word made it sound scandalous.

Turns out, there’s an even bigger word hiding beneath that one. A word for something your skin is doing right now: desquamation (dess-kwuh-MAY-shun).

It sounds like something you’d hear in a spelling bee finals round — but it’s just the name for what happens when your skin quietly lets go of what it no longer needs. Cell by cell, your body is constantly shedding the outermost layer — the ones that have finished their job. No peeling, no pain. Just a silent, invisible flurry of microscopic goodbyes. About 30,000 of those little cells drift away every minute.

Some of those drifting skin cells even find their way into the air around you. And yes — that dust in the corner? It’s you. Or it was. In fact, researchers have found that a good chunk of the dust in your house is made of dead skin.

It’s like a quiet echo of that old line: "Soylent Green is people." Well — so is dust. And dust bunnies? . . . Let’s just say ‘they’re not animals.’

But it’s not just about keeping things tidy. This shedding is vital. Without it, we’d be walking around sealed in a crust — stiff, cracking, and vulnerable to infection. That’s what happens to areas where skin gets trapped or thickened, like feet kept in socks all winter. No air, no sunlight, no gentle friction. No wonder they come alive again after a barefoot walk on the beach — a little saltwater and sand, and the old layers let go.

Desquamation is one of those everyday mercies we don’t think about — a quiet system of renewal built right into our design. Your skin doesn’t just wear out — it sheds, rebuilds, refreshes. And if Jehovah made our bodies that way… could it be he wants the same for our minds and hearts?

What if the old personality we’re told to take off — the one weighed down by habits or grudges or pride — isn’t meant to be peeled away in agony, but shed in small, steady steps? What if spiritual growth works like skin: always in motion, always making room for something new?

The apostle Paul urged Christians to “put away the old personality which conforms to your former course of conduct” and “put on the new personality” — one molded by God’s standards, not just our own (Ephesians 4:22–24, NWT). That process isn’t a one-time decision. It’s a quiet, ongoing one — microscopic in its beginnings, but transformative in its result.

Your epidermis is showing. That’s good.

It means you’re alive.

It means you are changing.

References:

• Journal of Allergy and Clinical Immunology, Vol. 124, Issue 3 (2009)

• National Institutes of Health

• Ephesians 4:22–24 (NWT)