There is something deeply humbling about being told you cannot wear makeup for seven days… and then realizing how much that actually matters to you.

A few days before Easter, I had a cyst removed from my face. It was a simple procedure, and I’m very grateful, all is well. But, along with the aftercare instructions came the instructions: no makeup for seven days, just until the stitches come out. .

Seven days. Over Easter weekend.

I wish I could say I immediately responded with, “Of course! My worth is not in my appearance! He is risen!” but instead, my brain went straight to, “Wait… like… not even a little concealer?? What about the pictures? What will my friends think of me at church? What will my mom say?”

Here’s the thing: I don’t wear heavy makeup. I’m not out here contouring like a YouTube tutorial. But, I do rely on the small, familiar routine of evening things out. A little mascara, some blush occasionally, and, like a true millennial, I love my liquid eyeliner.

What surprised me wasn’t that I cared, it was how much I cared. The way I kept mentally calculating: Could I just dab a tiny bit around it? Would anyone notice? Am I being vain? Am I being ridiculous? Why does this feel like such a big deal? Layered underneath all of that was the irony.

Because, as I said, this all landed on Easter weekend.The weekend that quite literally centers on death, resurrection, and the complete upending of what we think matters.The weekend that or boldly proclaims, you are already made new.

Yet, there I was, spiraling a little over mascara.

It felt… absurd. I began to do some deep inward reflection, which led me to, my makeup collection.

My journey with makeup starts where most little girls find themselves: at the feet of their mother. “This is the best mascara” I remember her saying, leaning forward into the mirror as she swiped the wand over her eyelashes. It had a green lid and a pink base, if that tells you anything. I’m pretty sure she still uses that brand. Years later, when I would try out different mascaras, that wasn’t the one for me, and I’ve settled pretty firmly on Loreal Voluminous in blackest black.

When I was a young teenager, my mom took me to the drugstore and helped me pick out a foundation: Cover Girl Clean in Classic Ivory. “Test it on the back of your hand.” she told me. I used my fingers to put it on everyday, as this was pre-Beauty Blender. The most popular lip glosses ever in middle school were the Lip Smackers Flip Glosses, with their angled lids and levered openings. I had one, naturally. My friends and I would swap them all around and share, which I now cringe at. The germs, oh the germs we must have spread.

For a birthday, I don’t remember which one, after having read an article in Teen Vogue about lipglosses that pair well with braces, my mom took me up to the Lancomb counter at the mall and bought me a juicy tube. I didn’t share that one with anyone. That was my first “fancy” makeup.

I, like so many other women of the time, was caught up in the mineral makeup infomercials. I dutifully placed an order, via my parents. That was the first time I used an actual makeup brush.

By the end of high school, bronzer was on the rise, and my friends and I all loved an especially sparkly one by Rimmel called Sundance. The extent of my skincare regime was a Clean&Clear medicated (for acne) cleansing pad and some sunscreen on pool days.

The first time I learned about washing my face was at a Mary Kay party hosted by my youth minister’s wife in the parsonage. “You just need these wipes, one every day.” We bought the drug store brand and I forgot to use them often. Moisturizer didn’t come until later. I had often seen my mom’s Oil of Olay bottles, but I didn’t realize the importance until reading a Helena Frith Powell book as an early twenties-something. Day and night cream? I was out of my league. I turned to YouTube.

Enter: college and the age of the contour. The rise of Makeup Youtubers coincided with the cusp of my adulthood and I learned a lot about blush, contouring, and false eyelashes. I dealt with a fair bit of depression in those days, for the first time ever, and I remember one particularly blue afternoon when my housemate pulled out all her nail polish and gave me a mani-pedi to lift my spirits. It helped. When the world felt big and fast and scary, I could control my appearance. That same friend introduced me to It Cosmetics foundation, and that’s been a staple for me ever since.

During nursing school, another friend and I were obsessed with Victoria’s Secret eyeshadows. My go-to was called 24K. You can get it on eBay now.

One morning, 12 or so years ago, in Amarillo, after a harrowing night shift as a new nurse, I was giving report to the day nurse that had a flawless cat-eye. She was grouchy because she had been pulled from another floor. I was giving her complicated patients and as the relay of information continued, her gum chewing became more and more agressive. “Is that all?” She finally asked, her tone flat. “One more thing.” I said. She raised an eyebrow. “What kind of eyeliner do you use? It looks amazing.” Her mood changed perceptively for the better and she pulled it out of her purse. “This one. It has to say Master Precise. You use it like a sharpie.” I nodded and committed it to memory. I still buy it to this day.

At my brother’s wedding, my sister-in-law’s bridesmaids introduced me to Babylips, a soft lipstick for those who don’t like lipstick. I wore a shade of it at my own wedding, just months later, where my cousin did my makeup. I never felt so beautiful.

After the birth of my first daughter, we lived in chilly and grey Colorado and I felt the same dregs of depression tugging at me. I was lost in the throws of new motherhood and the long winter was difficult. My mother-in-law persuaded me to go to the mall and took me to the make-up counter there. “She needs pampering.” She told them. “We aren’t leaving here until she’s spent at least $200.” With the promise of a sale, the clerk was extra-friendly, and gave us lots of samples. After doing my foundation and eye makeup, she reached for a deep plum blush. “Oh no”, I said, stopping her, ” I usually do a peachy-pink blush. “Mmmm. Trust me.” She said. She was right. Into the bag it went. I felt like myself again, just a little bit.

A few years ago, shyly trying to make a new friend, I commented on a fellow church-goer’s lipstick. It was a vibrant red. “I love your lipstick. I don’t have the skin tone for red lips unfortunately. I just look like Snow White” I told her. She leaned back and studied my face. “You do, you just need to find the right one. Try a blue-based tone.”

Well, Chelsea, you were right and I found it. Loreal #315 in True Red, and I adore it.

Somewhere along the way, all of these little moments: drugstore aisles, shared glosses, late-night YouTube tutorials, kind friends, grumpy nurses with perfect eyeliner wove themselves into something bigger than just “makeup.” It doesn’t feel hiding who I am, it feels more like a gallery wall of pieces and moments and pigments that show how I want the world to see me.

When I was told, “No makeup for seven days,” it wasn’t just about skipping mascara. It felt like being asked to step outside of a version of myself I’ve built over years. Not in a dramatic way, if that makes sense.

But maybe that’s ok. Easter doesn’t ask us to bring our polished selves. It doesn’t require even skin tone or winged liner or the perfect shade of blush. It meets us in the raw, the undone, the places we’d usually smooth over before anyone sees.

This year, I showed up to Easter a little more bare than I planned. Three bright blue stitches next to my eye (thanks, Doc), no mascara, no eyeliner, no carefully evened-out complexion. You know what? No one gasped. No one recoiled. No one whispered.

My kids still needed me. The pews were still full. The songs were still sung. Christ was still risen.

And I was still loved, healing and a little tender, a little imperfect, but completely fine.

Here I am, nearly done with my seven makeup-free days, feeling slightly feral but also strangely grounded. I guess I’ve learned that that so much of what I cling to isn’t actually holding me together. Sometimes the things that feel like they’re holding us together… are just habits. Sometimes being asked to lay them down, even just for seven days, shows us we’re already standing just fine.