<\/p>\n
In my house, lotion was never optional. It was, and still is, a requirement. After every shower, before school, after gym class, or even stepping out of the house, my mother made sure I was moisturized from head to toe. There was always a bottle of Palmer\u2019s Cocoa Butter or Vaseline within reach. If I even thought about leaving the house with ashy elbows, she\u2019d stop me at the door. \u201cYou\u2019re not about to go outside looking ashy,\u201d she\u2019d say, half-loving, half-serious. At the time, I didn\u2019t think much of it. But looking back, I realize moisturizing was never just about appearance\u2014it was about pride.<\/p>\n
Growing up Black, moisturizing wasn\u2019t a suggestion, it was a standard. It was how we showed up for ourselves. Our mothers, grandmothers and ancestors made it an unspoken rule: If you\u2019re moisturized, you\u2019re cared for. If you\u2019re ashy, you\u2019re slipping.<\/p>\n
My mother didn\u2019t have a 10-step routine or fancy ingredients. She had what worked: cocoa butter, shea butter and good ol\u2019 petroleum jelly. She\u2019d warm the lotion in her hands before rubbing it into my arms, making sure every inch gleamed before I left the house.<\/p>\n
There was something grounding about it: the soft, rhythmic motion of care. Moisturizing wasn\u2019t a chore; it was a language. It said, I see you, I love you and I\u2019m protecting you.<\/p>\n
Now, years later, as a beauty editor surrounded by shelves of serums, oils and luxury body creams, I realize how deeply that lesson shaped me. The act of moisturizing still feels sacred, but it\u2019s also political, especially when the world once ignored our needs and now profits off our rituals. What was once dismissed as \u201ctoo heavy\u201d or \u201ctoo greasy\u201d is now repackaged as \u201crich\u201d and \u201cnourishing.\u201d What they called \u201cshine,\u201d we\u2019ve always known as glow.<\/p>\n
And yet, it\u2019s easy to forget how powerful that ritual is until you stop doing it. During one particularly hectic year, I fell out of the habit, rushing through showers, skipping lotion altogether. My skin grew dry, but so did my energy.<\/p>\n
When I finally slowed down and returned to the ritual, it felt almost spiritual. I realized that moisturizing wasn\u2019t just about hydration; it was a reminder that my body deserves time, attention and intention. Every stroke of cream across my arm was a reclaiming of self.<\/p>\n
To moisturize is to insist on softness in a world that asks you to be hard. It\u2019s a refusal to let yourself crack under pressure. For Black men and women, especially, that softness feels radical. We\u2019re not often encouraged to take care of our bodies with tenderness, but there\u2019s something revolutionary about doing it anyway\u2014about saying, I deserve to be soft, too.<\/p>\n
Now, my vanity looks a little different. There\u2019s my staple, Vaseline Glazed & Glisten Vanilla Cocoa Shimmering Gel Body Oil, right next to more modern luxuries like Fenty Skin\u2019s Butta Drop and N\u00e9cessaire\u2019s Body Serum. I move slower now when I moisturize, taking time to massage the product into my shoulders and legs, watching the sheen appear. It\u2019s no longer about hiding dryness; it\u2019s about honoring my skin for carrying me through everything.<\/p>\n
Moisturizing wasn\u2019t a chore; it was a love language.<\/p>\n
The older I get, the more I understand that moisturizing connects me to my past while grounding me in the present. It\u2019s how I care for myself, how I remember my mother\u2019s lessons and how I pass that quiet wisdom down to future generations. For me, to be moisturized is to be seen. To be moisturized is to belong to yourself.<\/p>\n<\/p><\/div>\n