It starts before the mirror. Before the serum. Before the soft glide of something meant to heal what the world has touched.
It starts with the dull burn in your jaw from clenching in your sleep. The crease pressed into your cheek from the pillow that held your face for six hours. The quiet voice that says: “You didn’t sleep enough. You didn’t drink enough. You’re not enough.”
And then — you touch your face.
Not to fix it. Not to punish it. But just to feel what’s still yours.
There’s a small mercy in that. The water splashed cold. In a balm that smells like eucalyptus and memory. In the weight of your palms pressing moisturizer into skin that’s carried you through more than you want to admit.
You don’t need to glow for anyone. You don’t owe radiance to the world. But this moment — this ritual — is yours. To reclaim. To breathe. To begin again.
Because skin isn’t just skin. It’s your history. Your fight. Your softness. Your refusal to disappear.
So no, this isn’t just skincare.
It’s the slow, defiant act of showing up in the skin you wake up in.
