Le Bain de Minuit

Beauty

Apr 9

An Evening Ritual with Ulivary, Yves Rocher, Obakki, Picot Collective & More

There are evenings that ask nothing of you but presence. No noise, no phone, no doing. Just the quiet call to soften. To remember who you are at the end of the night. To let everything you've been holding melt into water.

The windows were fogged. Our new vanity—warmly lit from underneath—cast a low golden glow across the ensuite, catching the soft veining in the cedar slatted walls. It's giving midcentury elegance with the hush of a private sauna. The silhouette of steam rose slowly toward the open window. The delicate trim of my robe cascades down my body, clinging to the places where the heat had already kissed my skin. Everything felt soft, still, and steeped in intention.

The room felt quiet and expensive, like the inside of a boutique spa at closing hour. Every detail was deliberate: fresh towels folded, a glass of cold water resting on a ceramic dish, a candle flickering just enough to show it had been recently lit. I didn’t rush. I never do. This isn’t a luxury I fall into when I’m tired—it’s the kind I choose, often. The kind that makes a Tuesday evening feel like a scene from a film where the woman always knows exactly who she is.

I lit two tall candles for some ambiance. I got these sleek and iconic candle holders from Simons while we were renovating and this was the first time I got to put them to good use. Their silhouettes cast the most serene shadows across the Brazilian Slate floors. That flicker of flame spoke quietly: ‘Sarah, the world can wait.’

Next, I poured in a handful of Honey Tobacco Bath Salts by Picot Collective—a scent that smells like the woman I want to be. As the salts melted into the water, the room transformed. It smelled like skin after sun. Like gold softened at the edges. Like a woman who, no matter what, keeps her softness sacred. The Moroccan lava clay blended with the magnesium sulfate and Dead Sea salts will soon begin to do their work—pulling tension from my body, purifying my pores, softening my skin with every breath. And at this moment, watching salt rocks melt into the hot water, I experience a revelation: this is exactly what I came here for—Softness. Stillness.

Before I even slipped in, I moved across the slate floor wrapped in my Ulivary Orange Leopard Kimono—sent to me by a woman whose presence was just as graceful as the silk she chose for me. It wasn’t a transaction, it was a gesture—one of those rare exchanges where you feel seen before you even unwrap the package. Burnt orange, boldly feline, and wildly feminine, it didn’t just drape over my body—it draped over a part of me I had almost forgotten. A woman who still gets to feel beautiful. A woman who doesn’t need permission to take her time. Ulivary reminded me of that. From the care of their message to the elegance of their design, everything about this moment mirrored what I needed most: to feel held, luxurious, and completely mine again.

As my body slipped into water, I reached for the Monoi Collection by Yves Rocher—an island in a bottle. My French family has been buying Yves Rocher since I was a girl. It smells like summers in Cannes, like your grandmother’s bathroom drawer, like the kind of tan you don’t forget. Their monoi oil is made from Tahitian gardenia flowers macerated in coconut oil—hydrating, nourishing, and adored for generations in French Polynesia. That night, I massaged it into my arms, slowly, like I was trying to remember something. And I did. I remembered how to feel beautiful again.

To cleanse, I lather the Obakki Charcoal Soap Bar—jet black, richly scented with bergamot, white grapefruit, frankincense, lavender, and vetiver. As I lathered, the black rinsed into a gentle grey spiral down my body. It was the detox I didn’t know I needed. Every ingredient is vegan, natural, and ethically sourced to create sustainable income for women entrepreneurs across Africa—exactly the kind of product I love: powerful and purposeful. Clean skin, clean conscience.

I stayed in the water long after it went lukewarm.
Not because I had to. But because I didn’t want to rush the feeling of being back in my body. Of just being.

I stepped out slowly, skin warm and flushed, like I’d just returned from someplace sacred. The towels were still folded. The candle still flickering. Nothing had changed outside of me, and yet—everything had. This wasn’t about indulgence. It was about everyday reverence. About choosing beauty in the mundane. Stillness in the middle of the week. And the kind of softness that doesn’t wash off when the water drains, but smoothens—the skin, the air, and deep in the memory of a woman who made time to pamper herself.

I didn’t towel off right away. I let the breeze from outside the window touch me first. Let the coolness trace its way down my legs, the silence linger like this perfumed bain de minuit. Somewhere between the last drop of water and the first step back into my kimono, I remembered: not everything needs to be rushed, explained, or earned. Some things—like beauty, like softness—are simply yours to claim.

What I Used: