I remember putting Vaseline on my mom’s lips as she lay in the ICU, strapped to a bed, fighting for her life.
I had just been told she’d been there for days. Days that no one could reach me because my uncle told the hospital we were estranged—and that he was the one authorized to make her medical decisions. No one told them I had moved out just weeks prior. No one told them I was her only child. They told the hospital she had other children.
That moment broke me.
And if I’m being honest, something in me left that day—something I don’t think will ever fully return. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’ve felt different ever since.
When I saw my mother—the strongest person I’ve ever known—lying there like that, I knew I had to do something to nurture her.
You see, we were each other’s entire world. She’s the one who introduced me to skincare. She was my business partner. No matter what life threw at her, she always looked beautiful and smelled incredible—even when people tore her down for being a big girl. In this country, the connection between respect and appearance is painfully warped, and she fought that narrative in her own way: by showing up as her best self.
As machines beeped and voices faded in the background, I leaned in close.
“Mom… it’s me. I’m here.”
She opened her eyes and looked at me.
I grabbed her hand, and she squeezed mine beneath the restraints that were there for her own safety. I started singing Precious Lord, one of our favorite spirituals—the one we used to harmonize together. With each note, I stroked her face. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
When I finished, I kissed her and noticed her lips. They were cracked, dry—like crumbled paper.
I reached into my bag for my lip gloss, because I had to get my girl right. The nurse stopped me and said she couldn’t allow that, but she could bring Vaseline.
I still have that tube to this day, tucked under my mattress.
As I rubbed the moisture into her lips, she looked at me, and we cried together. I could only imagine how a parent must feel—looking at their child, helpless and afraid.
After that, I spiraled. For almost two years.
I barely showered—just enough to go to work and not smell. My appearance, something I’ve always taken pride in, became unrecognizable to me. I gained 25 pounds. Anxiety medication caused breakouts and hyperpigmentation, and I became deeply insecure.
But even on my worst days, one thing brought me comfort: self-care.
A bubble bath. A sheet mask from Ulta. My favorite candle. Leftover Melanin Bae products from a launch years earlier. I’d pour a glass of MD 20/20 Peaches & Cream (don’t judge me), take a hot bath, moisturize, and put on one of my mom’s old T-shirts or moomoo.
For a moment, everything felt right.
It reminded me of sneaking into her room as a kid, spraying her expensive perfumes—Jo Malone and Carolina Herrera—like it was Bath & Body Works. “Girl, you act like it grows on trees,” she’d say.
The more I poured into my self-care, the better I felt.
Did it erase the fact that my mom was gone? Of course not.
Did it make me forget that I had to sue my own family for guardianship and to handle her affairs? I wish.
But you know what it did do?
It reminded me of me.
Of who I was—and who I could return to, with time.
With every scent, with every glow, I started taking my life back. And one day, I realized I was ready to return to my business.
Research supports the idea that self‑care can play a meaningful role in mental health. For example, studies have found that engaging in regular self‑care activities — from sleep and healthy habits to mindful coping — is associated with fewer depressive symptoms in adults (PubMed) shows that when someone is depressed, self-care is often one of the first things to disappear.
Every time I took care of myself, I could hear my mom’s voice:
“Ooo, that smells good, girl—what you cookin’ up over there?”
Every time I got my hair done:
“You’re so beautiful, baby. Send me a picture for Facebook.”
Taking care of myself reminded me that life was still worth living.
Self-care was not a luxury for me—it was survival.
It was the bridge back to myself.
It was how I found my way out of the dark.
And you, too, can find your way toward your own light.