Why My Skincare Routine Is Now Just Praying and Crying into Moisturizer

It all started with a jade roller. Or maybe it was the 10-step Korean skincare routine I read about at 2 a.m. during one of my “I will become a new person tomorrow” spirals. Either way, my descent—or ascension, depending on how you see it—into emotional skin maintenance was inevitable.

Once upon a time, I had a meticulous routine. Double cleanse. Essence. Toner. Serum. Eye cream. Sheet mask. Moisturizer. SPF. Night oil. Affirmation. Sleep. (Just kidding—sleep was optional.) My bathroom looked like a Sephora exploded. My shelves were a chaotic shrine to hyaluronic acid, retinol, and impossible standards. And yes, for a while, I glowed. But then came the pandemic, a breakup, late-stage capitalism, and the existential crisis formerly known as turning 30.

Now? My skincare routine is just crying softly into a tub of moisturizer and whispering, “Please fix everything,” as I slap it onto my face like it owes me money. And honestly, it’s the most honest my skin has ever felt.

Let’s talk about why.

The Performance of Wellness

The beauty industry, for all its innovation, has quietly turned into theatre. Gone are the days when washing your face was a private act of hygiene. Now, it’s content. Skinfluencers are filming entire documentaries from their bathrooms. If you're not Gua Sha-ing your face with rose quartz under the full moon while reciting mantras, are you even trying?

At some point, skincare stopped being about skin and started being about virtue. You're not just cleansing; you're healing generational trauma with vitamin C. That’s a lot of pressure to put on a serum.

Somewhere between the Instagram reels, the morning rituals, and the “Sunday reset” vlogs, I lost the plot. My face became a battleground for expectations—professional, personal, societal. There was a time I believed that if I could just find the right product, I’d unlock the version of myself who had her life together. Spoiler alert: no cream can do that. I tried them all.

Eventually, the act of putting on skincare felt like pretending. Pretending I was okay. Pretending I was thriving. Pretending that fixing my pores would fix my problems. It didn’t.

Moisturizer as an Emotional Support Tool

Somewhere in this chaos, moisturizer became less about hydration and more about therapy. There’s something deeply vulnerable about the moment at the end of the day when you’re bare-faced, exhausted, and just trying to keep it together.

It usually happens like this: I stare into the mirror under the harsh light of reality. My pores are loud. My thoughts are louder. I scoop out some moisturizer, pat it onto my face—and that’s when the tears start. A little sob. A little sniffle. A lot of praying to no one in particular that tomorrow might be less hard. Maybe I’ll remember to drink water. Maybe I won’t dread my emails. Maybe I’ll stop comparing myself to everyone else on the internet.

My nightly ritual is no longer about transformation. It’s about surrender. My moisturizer doesn’t promise miracles. It just promises not to sting. And that’s all I need right now.

Crying: Nature’s Original Toner?

There’s a theory I’m currently workshopping that crying is actually an underrated skincare step. Hear me out.

It’s a detox.
It unclogs emotional pores.
It’s free.
And let’s be real: your skin always looks dewy after a good sob session.

I’m not saying you should cry on purpose to improve your glow (although if it works, you’re welcome), but there’s a strange kind of catharsis in letting it out while slathering on a night cream. It feels almost poetic—like your body and soul are exfoliating at the same time.

The Capitalism of Self-Care

Let’s address the elephant in the Sephora bag: self-care is big business. What started as a radical act of survival and resistance (especially in marginalized communities) got whitewashed, branded, and monetized faster than you can say “collagen booster.”

Now, self-care looks like $80 oils and $100 facials. Somehow, taking care of yourself has been twisted into a luxury, when it should be a basic right. The message is clear: if you can’t afford the latest serum, maybe you don’t deserve peace.

This is where my praying-while-crying skincare routine comes in. It’s my way of reclaiming the ritual. No frills. No filters. No affiliate links. Just me, my thoughts, and a $12 tub of cream that I bought at CVS with a coupon.

Emotional Skin: A Concept

I’m convinced that my skin reacts more to stress than to any ingredient. I could have the gentlest, most soothing products in the world, and if I’m emotionally shattered, my face looks like I’ve been in a wind tunnel full of bees.

That’s because stress is inflammation. It’s cortisol. It’s burnout with a side of hormonal acne. The biggest lie skincare companies ever told us is that we can scrub our way out of emotional exhaustion.

When I cry into my moisturizer, I’m acknowledging that my skin isn’t a separate entity from my life. It reflects my joy, my sadness, my anxiety, my resilience. It tells the truth even when I can’t.

So I’ve stopped fighting it. I’ve started listening.

Community Over Cream

You know what’s better than a fancy serum? A group chat where someone says, “You’re doing great,” even when you’re not. You know what clears skin faster than toner? Laughing so hard you snort. Connection is medicine.

Some of the best healing I’ve experienced hasn’t come from products, but from people. The friend who brought soup when I couldn’t get out of bed. The coworker who said, “Take a break, I’ve got this.” The stranger online who shared their own meltdown and made me feel less alone.

Skincare is fine. But soul care? That’s the real glow-up.

Healing Is Not Linear (But My Eye Bags Are)

There are days I still do a full routine. There are days I just splash my face with water and hope for the best. Both are valid. Healing is not linear. Some nights you’ll light a candle and journal. Other nights you’ll watch 5 hours of reality TV and fall asleep with mascara on. That’s okay.

My new skincare mantra is simple: “Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.”

If that means praying while applying moisturizer with tears in your eyes, so be it. You’re still showing up. You’re still trying. That’s beautiful.

Final Thoughts: Grace Over Glow

I used to chase radiance like it was a finish line. I thought if I just did enough—the right serums, the right routine, the right lifestyle—I’d unlock peace. But now I understand: peace isn’t found in perfection. It’s found in permission.

Permission to be soft. To feel deeply. To not have all the answers. To cry into moisturizer if that’s what the day requires.

So no, my skincare routine isn’t Pinterest-perfect. It’s not aesthetic. But it’s mine. And it’s real.

And sometimes, real is the most radiant thing of all.

Product Recommendations (Sort Of)

In case you’re wondering, here’s what’s currently on my emotional skincare shelf:

Moisturizer That Doesn’t Judge Me™ – Any drugstore cream that doesn’t make me break out.
Tears of Realization™ – 100% natural, sourced fresh nightly.
Prayer Serum – Comes in the form of whispered hopes and middle-of-the-night journaling.
Reality Toner – Splash cold water on your face and face your feelings.
SPF 50 – Because even when everything else is chaos, you still need sun protection.

A Note to You

If you’ve made it this far, maybe you see yourself in these words. Maybe your skincare routine has also become a soft place to land after a hard day. Maybe you’ve cried into your moisturizer, too.