The things we do naked
There is something almost sacred about the way we care for ourselves when no one is watching. These moments are unfiltered and unperformed, rituals that ask for no applause and require no audience.
For me, the heart of it has always been the shower. When I say naked, I do not just mean without clothes. I mean stripped of the day’s weight. In the shower I am free. I am not performing beauty. I am experiencing it. A shower after heartbreak, a long night out, or even after a good cry is one of the quickest ways to feel like me again. It is therapy disguised as hygiene.
Science agrees with what instinct already knows. Hot water soothes tense muscles, opens pores, and softens the skin so products are absorbed more effectively. It also releases endorphins, which explains why long showers can feel meditative.
Cold water tells a different story. Dermatologists say it tightens pores, reduces inflammation, and boosts circulation. Researchers have even found that it can trigger a natural dopamine rush. Whether I linger in heat or finish with an icy rinse, I step out, feeling changed.
Gestures of care
Then there are the products, which become their own quiet language. I have always preferred body wash. While bar soaps are timeless, they can strip natural oils and may harbor bacteria when left in humid spaces. Liquid cleansers tend to be more hygienic and hydrating, and for my dry skin, that makes a difference. But beyond utility, there is something indulgent about body wash. The creamy texture, the fragrance, the lather. It transforms a basic task into something almost luxurious. I also keep Aesop’s Geranium Leaf Body Scrub in my shower for when I want something more transformative, a polish that leaves me feeling renewed.
Lately, skincare has become an even deeper act of presence. What used to be a simple two-step routine has grown into something more layered. I now alternate between nine thoughtfully chosen products: hydrating serums, exfoliants, nourishing oils. I have grown especially fond of Good Molecules, but I also reach for the elegance of Clé de Peau. Occasionally, I borrow a little La Mer from my mother’s vanity.
It is not about luxury for the sake of it. It is about how it all feels. My skin, once perpetually dry, now feels cared for. Every step is a gesture of respect toward the body I live in.
I never go through these rituals in silence. Music fills the room as I take my time, giving each step its own rhythm. I even dance a little. A “dancey dance” between serums and oils. It makes me smile. It reminds me that beauty does not always require a mirror. Sometimes it is just about feeling good where you are.
Well-being without tension
A few days ago, I stayed at The Westin Manila. I arrived open but exhausted, hoping for a pause I had not made time for. The experience was serene in the best way. It centered rest and invited reflection without demanding it.
On my first afternoon, I was welcomed at the Heavenly Spa, where a full-body massage unraveled the tension I have been holding for months. That massage, followed by sunset yoga on the top floor with the city glowing in streaks of gold, grounded me more than I expected. I embraced my body’s full range of motion, each stretch peeling back a deeper layer I had not realized I was holding.
The next morning, I stayed in and gave my body what it asked for: rest. I eventually made my way to their Wellness Market, where I tried a scoop of King Kim’s sugar-free ice cream, which surprised me with its richness. I also picked up a pack of Earth Desserts’ tablea crisps, a healthy treat that I will be repurchasing. The entire space was designed to support well-being without overwhelming the senses, allowing me to be fully immersed in my own rhythm.
The privilege of inner peace
What I love about these rituals is how ordinary they are. They are not reserved for the wealthy or glamorous. They are available to anyone with water, a little soap, and a willingness to be present. Of course, I know not everyone has that access. A long shower, a massage, even stillness… These are all privileges. That awareness makes the rituals more meaningful. Whenever I enter the water or press serum into my skin, I try to treat it as a blessing.
It was my grandfather who taught me to think this way. He swore by his routine, long before I understood why. His skin carried proof of that. Even now, when I smooth on oil or layer something hydrating, I think of him. There is something beautiful in the idea that private acts of care can leave such visible legacies.
Sometimes, these rituals are what prepare us to meet the world with more intention. The way I oil my legs, brush my hair, or dry off with a fresh towel is not about vanity. It is about acknowledgement. I was here. I am still here. And I am worthy of care.
That weekend stay reminded me of that. It showed me that slowing down is not an indulgence. It is a form of listening. And what my body said back was simple: “Thank you.”
Because in the end, these small acts accumulate. They are not wasted minutes. They are not vanity. They are checkpoints. Tiny reminders that I am alive. That I am worth showing up for, even when no one else is watching.
