I’ve been thinking a lot about softness lately, the kind that doesn’t need to be announced, that just is. This season, my goal is to strip things down. No elaborate makeup, no performance. Just skin. Just me.

For a long time, I didn’t put much faith in skincare. My skin has always been what you might politely call “sensitive,” or prone to breakouts, affected by every little mood swing in the climate, the humidity, the pollution, the universe. It drove me crazy to look in the mirror some days, like I was wearing someone else’s frustration on my face.

But something shifted recently. I’ve started treating skincare less like a battle and more like a ritual: an act of care, not correction. When I touch my skin now, I try to really touch it. No criticism, no editing. Just attention. It’s become my little mindfulness practice (yes, I said it): a moment to connect with myself, to listen to how my skin responds, to offer softness and receive it back.

It turns out, skin listens. And it speaks.

What I didn’t realize until now is that the story my skin tells isn’t just about the surface — it’s about everything I’m holding inside. So I started going inward too, with what I eat, what I consume, and how I support my body.

Nobody warns you how crucial hormone balance becomes when you’re in your 40s. It’s like a secret language suddenly reveals itself. Now, I find myself leaning on allies like pumpkin seeds (who knew?) for their hormone-balancing properties, and building meals around nourishment rather than rules. I used to eat to stay thin. Now I eat to stay steady.

This is how I’m learning to be more natural with myself. Less curated, more curious. Beauty, to me now, is not in the “flawless” look, but in the ability to be in conversation with my own body, to be on good terms with the person I see in the mirror.

The goal isn’t perfection — it’s presence, and embodiment.