There are certain moments from my past that have held their place in my consciousness since the day they happened. While other memories faded, drifted to more distant parts of my brain or vanished within minutes of occurring, a seemingly arbitrary collection of snippets has remained. Like the inside pocket of every purse I own that is always used to hold my house key, there are areas of my mind that harbor flashes of time that don’t seem to make much sense in terms of their longevity. Why would it be important for me to remember one tiny exchange with a high school girlfriend when I was barely 16 years old? The one where, as we headed to bed after a late night out, I said to her, “I’m so tired…so tired I’m not even going to wash my face.”

Even in high school, after a few sleepovers and slumber parties, my friends knew I had a non-negotiable ritual at bedtime: Washing my face. Instilled in me by my mother from the time I was a teenager, the act of washing my face — along with an array of other steps like moisturizing and toning — became a ritual that has stayed with me my entire life. No matter where I am or how tired I am, if I have water and sink (even a bowl will do) my face will be clean before I go to sleep. But every once in a while, I give myself permission to go to bed with the day’s makeup and dirt still intact, and when that happens I think of that conversation.

There is something comforting in the knowledge that this is a ritual I have been devoted to for nearly 30 years, that through all the twists and turns life has thrown me, in all the different countries and cities I’ve visited, I have taken this routine with me. Through everything, washing my face at the end of the day provides me with a few precious moments when time stands still and the world is quiet. The grime of the day is washed away, and every step of this process lets my body know it is time to wind down and prepare for whatever dreams lay in store for me.

The night I told my friend I was so tired I wasn’t going to wash my face, she totally got it — she knew I was tired. Really tired. Her knowing that didn’t have any profound effect on our friendship or the course of that evening; in many ways it was meaningless. But it stayed with me nonetheless, and I am beginning to think the reason it continues to shine from the dark recesses of my memory is that it provides a bookmark, something that shows me how long I’ve practiced this ritual — that despite so many changes and moves and travels, there have been small pockets of consistency in my life. Washing my face every night is not a practice that is going to change my life, but it is a small act of kindness towards myself that never fails to make me feel good, and perhaps that is enough — as with any act of kindness towards anyone, sometimes the smallest deeds are enough.

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