The water feels like confession at first, a place where the day’s mistakes slide silently down the drain. You turn the handle hotter, certain that sting is proof of transformation, that discomfort is the toll for coming out somehow better. But the evidence collects in the mirror: the flushed cheeks that never fully fade, the brittle ends, the way your scalp protests long after the towel is hung.
So you begin again, this time with less punishment and more listening. You trade scalding for warm, foam for nourishment, routine for response. You notice which parts of you ache after every ritual and which soften when you finally ease your grip. Slowly, your reflection stops looking like something to fix and starts looking like someone to care for. Clean becomes less about erasing yourself and more about returning to yourself—intact, unburned, and finally allowed to simply be.
