Skincare is more than routine, it’s a ritual. Through real stories of identity, healing, and heritage, we explore what it truly means to care for the skin we’re in.
Skincare is never just about skin.
It’s a reflection of culture, identity, and often generational wisdom.
Navigating a beauty industry that has historically overlooked the needs of most skin types can be difficult. But across the world, many cultures have long held rituals that make our skin and our stories feel seen, nurtured, and powerful.
From turmeric masks passed down by grandmothers to the struggle of finding the right SPF, caring for our skin often carries a deeper meaning, one shaped by heritage, exclusion, resilience, and pride.
Safiya, 23, British-Pakistani, from Bradford, says: “Every Sunday, my mum and I mix turmeric, milk, and honey into a thick golden paste. She tells me it’s what her mum used before big family weddings, to brighten the skin, calm the nerves, and mark a moment of care before celebration.
“We never needed face masks from shops, we had our own recipes. That half-hour, with the smell of haldi in the air and old Bollywood music playing from the kitchen radio, feels like home to me.”
Safiya grew up in a strong family oriented traditional home in Bradford where tradition was lived, not performed. Her nani’s skincare recipes weren’t just for weddings, they were everyday acts of love.
Her mum would heat coconut oil in her hands before massaging it through Safiya’s hair. On hot summer days, they’d crush rose petals and mix them with water, dabbing it gently onto their faces with cotton pads.
But as she got older, Safiya began to feel the weight of the outside world pressing in. She noticed how her classmates never had turmeric stains on their pillowcases, how her skin routines were seen as “weird” or “smelly.” She started to wash it off before sleepovers, hiding the scent of her heritage under store-bought cleansers that stung her skin and never quite worked.
She says: “I was so desperate to feel ‘normal’ that I forgot how sacred those rituals were. I didn’t realise then that what I was washing away wasn’t just a mask, it was my connection to something older than me.”
Now, in her twenties and studying literature, Safiya is rediscovering her roots through words and through ritual. Her turmeric mask has become something she looks forward to a moment of stillness, of grounding. She performs poetry in open mics about dual identity, self-love, and how even the smallest rituals can become forms of resistance.
“Skincare, for me, isn’t about fixing flaws, it’s about connection. To my culture. To the women before me. And to a version of myself that I’m still learning to love turmeric-stained cheeks and all.”
While cultural rituals like Safiya’s have nourished skin and spirit for generations, the mainstream skincare industry has long failed to serve those outside a narrow beauty ideal.
For decades, products were formulated with lighter skin in mind, often ignoring the specific needs of melanin-rich skin.
Hyperpigmentation. Post-inflammatory marks. Ashy dryness. These aren’t niche concerns, they’re everyday realities for millions.
But until recently, there were few products designed to address them, and even fewer dermatologists who understood the nuance of darker skin tones.
Representation wasn’t just missing from shelves. It was missing from science.
“It felt like nothing was made for us,” Safiya says. “So we made it for ourselves.”
For some, like Safiya, that meant leaning into tradition. But for others it meant being left behind altogether, especially in spaces where skincare wasn’t even seen as something men were allowed to care about.
Samuel, 25, Nigerian-British, from South London, says: “I used to scrub my face raw with a flannel and Dettol soap. That’s how desperate I was to get rid of the acne.
“The teasing in school was brutal. I never saw Black boys in skincare ads. It was like good skin wasn’t meant for us.”
Growing up, Samuel never saw skincare as self-care, it was damage control. His routine was built on trial and error, home remedies, and supermarket soap.
It wasn’t until university, and a random late-night skincare video on TikTok, that he realised darker skin had different needs.
“I learned that melanin-rich skin can scar more easily, and that I’d been using all the wrong stuff. It made me feel kind of angry, like, why didn’t anyone tell me?”
There’s also the stigma. As a young Black man, Samuel felt pressure to “act tough,” not tender. Moisturiser was for women. Serums were “extra.” But slowly, he began carving out a routine, one that was quiet, intentional, and just for him.
“Now, my skincare routine is the only part of my day that’s just for me. It’s not about fixing anything, it’s about looking after myself properly.”
What started with turmeric in a kitchen, or a harsh bar of soap in a school bathroom, becomes something more as we grow.
For Safiya, it’s a ritual passed down with love. For Samuel, it’s a quiet reclaiming of care in a world that never encouraged softness.
Skincare isn’t just about products or routines, it’s about visibility, agency, and healing. It’s how we tell ourselves: I deserve to be looked after.
For many of us, especially those with melanin-rich skin, skincare has always been something more than surface-level. It’s a bridge between who we are and where we come from. A gentle reminder that our skin is not something to correct, it’s something to honour.
And in every drop of oil, every old family remedy, every mirror moment done on our own terms, we aren’t just taking care of our skin.
We’re taking our stories back.
