It’s always about the lipstick

My husband laughed and said, “Every burgundy looks the same. Why do you need six of them?”

And strangely, that question stayed with me.

At first, even I didn’t have an answer. It sounded excessive, maybe even a little vain. Why did I care so much about shades that looked almost identical to everything else?

I never really knew how to articulate this. But the more I thought about it, the more I realised it was never really about lipstick. I always knew, we all know. But we just don’t know how to explain what we really feel, without being free of judgement.

Lipstick, for me, was never just makeup. It was ritual. It was control. It was the smallest, simplest way of telling myself: I am here, I am showing up, and I am choosing how I meet the world today.

There are days I love being dressed up in a silk piece, feeling put together without trying too hard. And there are days I am happiest sitting on the couch with popcorn and cake, unshowered, doing absolutely nothing.

But even in those ordinary moments, I have always loved the feeling of intention.

Reading a book is never just reading a book. It is warm lighting, coordinated pyjamas, kahwa tea, biscuits or roasted nuts, a face mask, warm socks if it is raining. Watching a movie is not just pressing play, it is creating a feeling around it, popcorn, warm blanket, maybe a glass of wine.

I realised I approach life this way in everything. And funnily enough, I also found people who resonate with me in this aspect.

Not because aesthetics matter more than substance, but because rituals make me feel present. They make me feel like I am participating in my own life instead of just rushing through it.

Rituals, routines. And just like that..

Lipstick became part of that.

A bare face with just lipstick. Sometimes the same shade used on my cheeks and eyes too. It was never about perfection. It was about the shift it created. Like “hey, I’m ready.”

There is something strangely powerful about choosing your own face before the world gets to define it for you.

A bold shade made me feel sharper. A soft nude made me feel calm. A deep berry made me feel like I could handle difficult rooms and difficult people.

It was not confidence in the shallow sense of wanting to be admired.

It was confidence in the quieter sense: the feeling that I had some authorship and authority over myself.

For the longest time, I thought confidence would come after I fixed everything I disliked about myself.

My nose. My broad shoulders. My skinny legs. My flat chest. My height.

I thought if I looked different, I would feel different. I would often speak about rhinoplasty with my husband and my family earlier, because my nose isn’t in the “ideal” shape.

But confidence never arrived that way. It was never about change, it was about acceptance without inhibitions.

It arrived in much smaller places.

It arrived when I started eating better.

When I stopped treating “home food” as automatically healthy and started understanding what my body actually needed.

It arrived when I realised looking fine and feeling strong were two very different things.

I had gained weight. I liked how I looked. But I was tired all the time. Weak. Unmotivated. Disconnected from myself.

From the outside, it looked like effort.

Inside, it felt like neglect.

So I started there.

Food first.

Movement next.

Planning meals.

Learning balance.

Showing up for my body in ways that were invisible to everyone else.

And somewhere in that process, dressing up came back naturally.

Not as performance.

As a result.

Because when you start feeling better, you want your outside to reflect your inside.

I stopped buying things for the person I thought I should become and started choosing for the person I already was.

A capsule wardrobe.

Better basics.

Lipsticks I would actually wear.

Minimal jewellery I would actually reach for.

A good watch.

Shoes that made me walk differently.

Even heels, sometimes, not because I needed them, but because in a male-dominated workplace, they made me feel less small.

Not taller, just more certain.

People often reduce these things to vanity.

But I think philosophy often hides inside ordinary things.

A lipstick is not just a lipstick.

A good bag is not just a bag.

Picking your outfit the night before is not just planning.

A routine is not boring.

Sometimes, these are acts of self-respect.

Tiny reminders that your life deserves intention.

That you deserve care before there is an occasion for it.

That confidence is rarely born in grand moments. It is built quietly, in repetition.

In cooking better meals.

In drinking more water.

In replacing overconsumption with understanding.

In learning your own body instead of fighting it.

In choosing what actually feels like you.

And maybe that is why I kept six burgundy lipsticks.

Because each one belonged to different a version of me.

The girl who wanted to feel bold.

The woman learning to conquer the world.

The version of me trying to feel in control.

The one learning she never really lost it.

This is not a motivational story.

It is just a reflection on how small things can pull you back from places you do not like being in.

Nothing really changes in one big moment.

It changes when you start showing up.

For your body.

For your mind.

For your routines.

For your life.

For yourself.

And sometimes, strangely enough, it begins with lipstick.