An idea popped into my head today: I should write a book called The Little Book of Big Lessons.
Will I actually write it? Who knows. But I’ve learned that when my brain throws out a big dream, the best thing I can do is give it space. So, here I am, taking the first small step—letting the idea breathe.
The concept is simple: the biggest, hardest lessons in life usually aren’t big or hard at all. They’re small truths, repeated in a thousand different forms, over and over again. That’s the kicker. When I’m struggling, when life feels tangled or heavy, the answers are usually already there (obvious, even). And that’s what makes them so infuriating. Because they’re simple. Because I already know them. But knowing is not the same as doing.
Hence, the first lesson that inspired this maybe-book: routines.
We love routines because they bring order. They give us a sense of control, progress, and accomplishment. But here’s the catch: when a routine becomes too familiar, it stops being meaningful. It turns into muscle memory. Repetition without awareness. And when that happens, the thing that once brought you joy or healing or clarity becomes… just another thing you do.
Let me explain using face washing.
Every morning and every night, I wash my face. Same products. Same process. No exceptions. At first, this routine changed everything. My skin cleared up, it glowed, and more importantly, it became a daily act of self-care. A ritual. A quiet moment just for me.
But over time, something shifted. My skin started breaking out again. It looked dull. Dry. Angry. So, like many of us do when something stops working, I looked for quick fixes: new products, new facials, zit stickers, anything. I tried to solve the problem instead of asking a better question.
Eventually, I realized what was happening: I had stopped listening. What started as an intentional act had become mindless. I was doing the routine, but I wasn’t tuning in. I wasn’t asking myself the simple questions:
How does my skin feel today? What does it need?
That’s when the shift happened.
Instead of scrapping everything or blindly adding more, I returned to intention. I kept the space—the time I set aside for myself—but I stopped following the routine blindly. Now, I pause. I check in. I ask questions. I select the tools that match the need. It sounds small, but it’s not. It’s the difference between maintenance and evolution.
Because here’s what I’ve learned: Routines are meant to serve us, not the other way around. They’re a bridge—not a destination.
Auto-pilot has a purpose. It tells me I’ve grown, that I’ve reached a new level of comfort. But that’s not where I want to live. It’s just a marker—proof of progress—and a cue that it might be time to shift again.
So now, in this next phase of my skincare (and maybe my life), I’m choosing presence. I’m still showing up, still prioritizing myself, but I’m doing it with fresh eyes and curious questions.
And every time I catch myself doing that—choosing intention over habit—I celebrate. Because damn, I’m proud of me. Even if I don’t have it all figured out.
