There was a time when the bathroom sink felt like a negotiation table.
On one side stood the cleansers that promised clarity. On the other side, the serums that insisted on transformation. In between, toners, exfoliants, spot treatments, masks. A small army of good intentions.
The lighting was sharp. The self-talk is sharper.
Fix this. Clear that. Tighten here. Brighten there.
Skincare had quietly become a form of control. A way to manage what felt unmanageable. Long days. Short nights. Emotional residue that did not evaporate just because it was inconvenient.
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