It started like every “this flight will change my life” type of trip. Fresh blowout, tote bag full of dreams, and a carry-on bursting with skincare. I had planned it all — the red-eye routine, the in-flight sheet mask (don't judge), the perfect “land and glow” effect. But one thing I forgot? The 100ml rule.

Last Friday. 6:02 PM. I was somewhere between another spreadsheet spiral and an identity crisis brought on by overhead lighting. My mascara had migrated south, and my calendar was as dry as my under-eye area.

Then came the text:

“Spur-of-the-moment weekend in the Loire with me?”

Cue the drama: no plan, no packing, no clue what I was doing — just an open heart, a dead laptop, and a wildly overconfident sense that I could fake a 48-hour glow with whatever I could fit into my tiny handbag.

They say beauty is pain. But who knew that beauty treatments could also bring out the tears?

So there I was, fresh off a cheek filler and glowing from a chemical peel, ready to conquer Coachella like the desert goddess I imagined myself to be.

Spoiler alert: instead of dancing under the sun, I found myself crying like I’d just watched the last episode of my favorite show.

Because sometimes, the biggest transformation isn’t the one you see in the mirror — it’s the one you feel in your heart.

So, here’s the tea: my therapist ghosted me. No warning. No “Can we reschedule?” No “Sorry, life got crazy.” Just… radio silence. Like I vanished off the emotional map.

At first, I gave her the benefit of the doubt—maybe busy, maybe needed space. But days turned into a week, and yeah, that silence? It stung. How do you unload your mess when the one person you trust goes MIA? I won’t lie—it hurt. Made me question everything. Am I too much? Not enough? Should I delete my texts?

But instead of drowning in sad playlists and spirals, I did what Carrie Bradshaw would do: took control and booked myself a facial.

I used to think “écran total” was just French for “I won’t burn.”

I tossed around “SPF 30” and “SPF 50” like they were basically the same thing.

Until I came back from a three-day beach trip sporting sunglasses tan lines, crispy shoulders, and one perfectly protected patch behind my ear—the only place I actually remembered to reapply.

Yep. Let’s talk sunscreen, because I was doing it all wrong.

You’d think after years of flying, I’d have learned. But no. I still treat boarding like a red carpet, not a skincare survival zone. Cute outfit? Check. Lip gloss? Obviously. Moisturizer? Left it in the checked luggage.

Four hours later, my skin was drier than the in-flight pretzels and begging for the emergency exit.

There’s this magical moment halfway through your terrace apéro when you swear you’ve never looked better. Cheeks flushed just right, lips glossy, skin dewy without even trying — and the golden hour lighting? Totally on your side. Someone drops a “Your skin is glowing!” and you buy it.

But here’s the tea: that’s not glow. That’s your body sending out a flare — alcohol-induced vasodilation, dehydration, and heat working overtime. You’re not radiant. You’re reactive.

And your skin will make sure you know it… by morning.

You know that feeling when you just spent the day at the beach?Bikini ? tcheck. - Salt-kissed hair ? tcheck. - That “just caught the perfect sunset” glow ?tcheck.

You snap a quick selfie, then five more, then basically your own mini photo shoot.Pick the best one, add a filter that screams “I drink water and sleep eight hours,” post it, and boom — instant glow queen status. Likes pour in. Comments like “SKINNNN” and “Glow Goddess” make you feel unstoppable. But then… you zoom in. And suddenly, the glow is less “dewy goddess” and more “sunscreen stains and sweat stains on parade.”

A beach day feels like therapy.

No makeup, ocean breeze, golden hour skin, vitamin D drip… it feels like health. But while I was pretending to be a sunkissed goddess, my skin was quietly filing a complaint. Came home, looked in the mirror, and reached for the acids. Just a little PHA-mandelic moment to elevate the glow.

Narrator voice: she should not have done that.

I’ve been ghosted, breadcrumbed, soft-launched and situationshipped. But nothing bruises the ego quite like falling for a serum that breaks you out. One day it’s glow city. The next? Redness, bumps, and betrayal. Honestly, I’m starting to think my skin needs therapy too.

Because here’s the thing: I want to trust. I want that long-term, barrier-safe, hydration-holding kind of love. But after everything my skin’s been through, it’s giving “don’t touch me unless you’re fragrance-free.”

There’s a special kind of chaos that hits at 3AM. Some people text their ex. Some spiral on LinkedIn. I, unfortunately, try new skincare. It’s always the same setup: one rogue TikTok, one too many “you need this” comments, and suddenly I’m applying something that smells like regret and promises to “zap” my breakouts overnight. Spoiler alert: it zapped my dignity instead.

Because that 3AM pimple? It wasn’t an accident. It was karma. It was the ghost of skincare past reminding me that impulse + active ingredients = chaos.

It started with a selfie. Not mine — hers. You know, that friend. The one with the perfect winged liner on a boat in Capri while your T-zone is actively melting off in front of your laptop. I stared at the pic for a solid three seconds, then at my reflection: dull, slightly puffy, and suspiciously textured. “Why does my skin look like it’s in a fight with me?” I whispered, knowing full well it couldn’t answer — but it felt like it wanted to.

Because here’s the thing: I swear my skin knows when I’m feeling left out. Like it can smell the envy through my phone. My group chat has been poppin’ with summer flings, brunches, festivals, and new glowy routines. Meanwhile, I’m over here breaking out like it’s finals week, even though my only major life stress is deciding between oat milk or almond.

There’s a fine line between “your skin is glowing” and “your skin is screaming.” And this summer, I’ve been walking it in platform sandals and a questionable SPF. Everyone keeps saying “your skin looks amazing” — but I can’t help but wonder… is it glow, or is it just a really chic flare-up?

So I did what any skincare-obsessed, heatwave-surviving girl would do: I investigated.

There’s something about summer that makes everything feel… messier. Hair gets bigger, emotions run wilder, and your skin? It’s sticky, shiny, and desperately trying to keep it together. Kinda like your love life.

Between half-texted flings and that new mineral sunscreen that refuses to blend, I found myself asking: why does protecting myself always feel so complicated?

Some girls do yoga at sunrise. Others journal with oat milk lattes in hand. Me? I roll my puffy face with a metal stick I keep in the freezer.

It may not be glamorous, but it’s the only reason I can face the group chat’s 9 a.m. beach plans without looking like I cried over my ex in my sleep. (Even if I did.)

There’s this moment — right after you’ve come back from the beach, sand still between your toes, salt clinging to your hair — where you catch yourself in the mirror and think: “Damn. I look good.” That bronzed, slightly pink, dewy thing going on? Summer glow unlocked.

But a few days later, your cheeks are tight, your T-zone's freaking out, and your “glow” is starting to look suspiciously like… inflammation.

So let’s talk about the difference between a real post-beach glow and the kind of fake, flaky radiance that’s just your skin crying for help.

I always thought the worst thing about a breakup was the crying. Or maybe the overanalyzing. Or that one Taylor Swift album that hits a little too hard. But no. The real betrayal? The breakout that hits three days later.

I wish I could say I handled my last breakup with grace. But let’s be honest — I was ugly crying into my pillow while binge-watching old episodes of Gossip Girl and stress-eating flaming hot snacks. And my skin? She was screaming. Chin? Cystic. Forehead? A war zone. Confidence? Missing.

Turns out, heartbreak doesn’t just break your spirit. It clogs your pores too.

It took me years, two dermatologists, and one very bad glycolic acid experience to finally say it: taking care of your skin barrier isn't extra. It's essential. And yet, somehow, no one talks about it until things go wrong. Until you break out. Flake. Burn. Peel. (Been there.)

So let’s talk about it. Because while everyone loves to show off their glow, no one wants to talk about how they got there. Spoiler: it probably wasn’t that new trending serum.

I used to tell anyone who would listen that I had the most sensitive skin on the planet. One whiff of fragrance? Rash. A new serum? Flames. Winter wind? Tears. But then a friend—who actually carries an EpiPen for her legit skin allergies—looked at my latest flare-up and said, “Girl, maybe your face is just… over you.”

Cue the existential crisis: Was my skin sensitive, or was I simply doing the most and calling it destiny?

I wish this was fiction. I really do. But the truth is: my ex had better skincare than I did. And not in a “he used whatever was on sale” way. No — thisman had a routine. A shelf. A face mist he actually liked. Meanwhile, I was out here raw-dogging my barrier with over-exfoliants and an identity crisis in a bottle.

We broke up over dinner (red flag: he didn’t flinch when I cried in public), but the real heartbreak hit a week later — standing in his bathroom, packing my things, and spotting his cleanser. A minimal white tube. No fragrance. No drama. Just barrier-friendly, pH-balanced peace in a bottle.

I left the relationship, but I didn’t leave that bathroom the same.

You know when your skin picks the absolute worst timing to freak out?

Mine waited until 48 hours before my girls’ trip to erupt into a red, inflamed panic on my left cheek, like a mini volcano with emotional damage.

I stared at it. I covered it. I spiraled.

Because when you’ve planned outfits, booked the Airbnb, and imagined yourself glowing in golden hour pics... one pimple can feel like sabotage.

Yes, I nearly cancelled.

But I didn’t. And I’m so glad.

My skin used to confuse me. Like, why did I wake up glowy and go to bed blotchy?

Why was my moisturizer perfect in the morning but felt heavy at night? Why did I feel like I had five different skin types in the same 24 hours?

I blamed hormones. Weather. My coffee intake. My SPF. My ex.

But the real answer was way less chaotic than I expected: My skin isn’t moody. It’s just following its circadian rhythm.

And once I understood that, everything — and I mean everything — started to make sense.

Let’s be real. Last night was chaos.

There was glitter involved, someone cried in the bathroom (me), and at some point I used a micellar wipe and called it a routine. Now the sun’s out, I’m late for brunch, and my skin? It’s fighting for her life.

But I’ve got a plan, and it starts now.

I used to treat my skincare routine like a buffet. One serum for glow, one for texture, one for oil control. A mist for fun. A toner I forgot the purpose of. A moisturizer (usually optional).

At one point, I was layering seven products. At night. In July. In a city where the heat feels personal.

My skin? Over it.

I was breaking out, flaking, and somehow… still shiny. So I decided to try something terrifying: just one cleanser. Just one cream. For one week. No serums. No extras. No panic.

Did my skin fall apart?

No. It lowkey thrived.

For years, I was convinced I had oily skin. Like, midday shine, foundation sliding off, constant blotting kind of oily. So I did what we’ve all done: foaming cleansers, weekly clay masks, gel moisturizers so light they basically evaporated.

But no matter what I used, my skin never looked calm. It looked… shiny and tight. Sometimes flaky. Sometimes breakout-y. Always confused.

Then someone said the sentence that changed my routine forever:

“You’re not oily. You’re dehydrated.”

And just like that, it all clicked.

For years, sunscreen and I were in a toxic relationship. I knew it was good for me. Everyone said so. But every time I let it back into my life, it disappointed me. Breakouts. Shine. That sticky, never-absorbed feeling that made my face look like I’d dipped it in a fry pan. I’d wear it, then regret it. So I stopped. And for a while, I lived recklessly.

I told myself my tinted moisturizer with SPF 15 was enough. I took selfies in the sun like fine lines were a myth. I even uttered the cursed words: “I don’t really burn.” But here’s the thing, even if you don’t burn, your barrier remembers. And mine? She was tired.

Here’s a summer truth no one talks about enough: I love to sweat. There, I said it. I like moving my body, walking instead of Uber-ing, dancing until I forget what time it is. Sweat makes me feel alive. But you know what doesn’t? The constellation of breakouts that show up the next morning like they were invited.

It’s like the minute the weather hits 25°C, my skin throws a protest. My forehead? Texture. My back? Breakouts. My jawline? Don’t even get me started. So I asked myself: Why does something natural — sweating — come with so much skin drama?

Turns out, the problem isn’t sweat. It’s what happens when we don’t let our skin breathe properly before, during, and after it. Let’s talk about it.

I don’t cook, but I do open my fridge religiously. Not for oat milk. Not even for leftovers. But for skincare.

Some people keep crystals by their bed. I keep a jelly cleanser next to my oat latte, because nothing, and I mean nothing, hits quite like cold skincare on a hot morning.

At first, I started chilling my products because it felt aesthetic. But then I noticed something real: my skin was calmer. My puffy morning face was less dramatic. My redness? On mute. Turns out, cold skincare isn’t just a TikTok thing. It’s borderline therapeutic.

So here are the 3 products that officially earned permanent shelf space in my beauty fridge (and yes, I made my roommate give up her butter compartment for them).

Some trends hit you like a heatwave. Fast, obvious, and a little overwhelming.

Others sneak up quietly : a soft texture, a cool sensation, a moment where your skin goes “wait… that felt amazing.”

This summer? It's all about melt-in skincare.

We’re talking jelly cleansers, jelly creams, water-light textures that feel like sorbet and disappear into your skin like a secret. Cold on contact. Soothing without trying. And suddenly, everything else feels… heavy.

I didn’t even know I was over my skincare routine until I tried something that actually made me look forward to it.

I used to think summer skin was supposed to glow. Golden, effortless, straight-off-a-film-camera kind of glow. But last weekend, as I stood in front of the mirror, red-faced, slightly crisped, and deeply annoyed, I had to ask myself:

Can you really glow… if you’re literally burnt out?

Cue the spiral. The sunburn wasn’t even dramatic, just enough to make my skin feel tight, hot, and betrayed. Maybe it was the skipped SPF reapply. Maybe it was me manifesting “sun-kissed” and getting “sun-slapped” instead. Either way, it was time for a skincare comeback.

No one warned me that getting your period would also mean your skin gets a personality disorder once a month. One day I’m glowing, the next I’m battling hormonal breakouts like it’s 2013 and I’ve just discovered makeup wipes.

Pimples that hurt. Oil that doesn’t quit. Random dry patches that show up just to be rude. And let’s not even mention the chin cyst that announces my cycle before my tracker does.

So I decided to get curious, not just frustrated. Why does my skin go full chaos mode during my cycle? And more importantly: what can I actually do about it?

We’ve all seen her.

The friend who shows up to brunch in dewy skin, glossy lips, and somehow zero sun damage. She’s glowing. Not sweating. Her forehead? Poreless. Her vibe? “I slept in a cloud and woke up in a campaign.”

You assume it’s genetics. Or a facial. Or that her glow is a gift from the sun gods.

But actually? It’s SPF. And she started way before the beach.

I grew up watching my mom apply the same cream every night, no matter the season, mood, or breakout. It was simple, comforting, and smelled like home. But somewhere between TikTok chaos and my own skin barrier having an existential crisis, I realized: the manual needed an update.

Sorry Mom , I still love your glow, but I’m rewriting the rules for mine.

You know the feeling. One day your skin is radiant, calm, balanced, you’re basically the main character of your own morning routine. Two weeks later? Dull. Tight. Confused. Breaking out in places you forgot existed. Your first instinct is to blame your serum, your pillowcase, Mercury in retrograde, or maybe all three. But here’s a quiet truth no one tells you: your skin isn’t “acting up.” It’s just trying to keep up with the weather.

I used to think skincare ended when the sun went down. Cleanser if I remembered, maybe a bit of moisturizer if my skin felt tight, and then straight to bed, usually scrolling until I passed out mid-video, mascara still on, dreams loading. The idea that my skin was actually doing something while I slept? Never crossed my mind. And yet… that’s when everything started to change.

Because here’s the plot twist: your skin doesn’t sleep when you do. It works overtime. Quietly. Consistently. Every night. And the way you treat it before bed? That sets the tone for the next 8 hours. Your glow doesn’t happen by chance. It’s the result of what happens after the routine, after the lights are off, after the world stops watching.

Like walking away from people who were bad for their skin (and their cortisol levels).

My dating life? Let’s just say it’s under review. But my skin? Glowing. Dewy. Slightly obsessed with herself.

I used to think self-care was something you did after the chaos. Now it’s my baseline. My version of romance isn’t roses : it’s a glowy skin routine with Korean skincare-inspired steps, a jelly-textured cleanser that feels like water on silk, and three minutes of eye contact with myself in the mirror.

Because let’s be real: the only “situationship” I want right now is between my moisturizer and my barrier.

Every year around April, the shift begins. People start saying things like “before summer,” “for summer,” or worse : “by summer.” By summer, I’ll have my routine locked in. By summer, I’ll finally feel confident in my body. By summer, my skin will be glowing, obviously.

It’s like June 1st became a personal performance review. And somehow, my skincare routine is supposed to carry the weight of it all.

I thought my skin was freaking out for no reason. Turns out, it was just keeping up with my screen time. Between late-night scrolling, work tabs, TikTok skincare tips I’ll never use, and constant notifications, my barrier was like, girl, enough. If your texture is acting up, your glow is glitching, and your face feels... tense? Same.

Let’s talk about how to fix it : gently, and without deleting your entire life.