Rituals of a Black Woman's Dawn
by Faith Ndansi
The first memories I have of self-care were wrapped in the quiet of morning, in the small rituals my mother carefully wove into our days. Every morning, like clockwork, she would enter my room at 6:30. She never barged in or shattered the stillness. Instead, she slipped in softly, sat beside me, and let her presence wake me. Those moments of stillness became my alarm, a quiet signal that the day had begun, our silence carrying more weight and care than any alarm clock ever could. Little did I know then, the calm she gave me would become armour, a rhythm I would carry into adulthood, a quiet practice of protection and peace.
After a few moments of silence, she would whisper, “let’s pray,” and take my small hands into her own. Her hands were soft but firm, folding around mine as she prayed over me, asking for protection, for guidance, and always giving gratitude. When the prayer was done, she would swiftly move to my closet to pick out my outfit, carefully laying it at the edge of the bed, and kiss me on the forehead before reminding me it was time to shower. Then she would slip out, leaving behind her quiet encouragement.
I’d drag myself into the bathroom, the orange glow of sunrise spilling across my bedroom. At six years old, I hated showers. I wanted them over with before they even began, which is why my mom sometimes set a timer, her way of slowing me down, reminding me that care takes time. Still, I rushed ahead anyway: rubbing shea butter into my skin, brushing my teeth, and slipping into the clothes she had laid out for me. My hair stayed frizzy and my bed barely made. The only thing that mattered to me was getting to school fast enough to play with my friends. But before I could escape, there was always the ride to school where my mom would seize the moment to teach me about mornings. She’d remind me to slow down and value my routine. “All successful people have routines,” she would insist. “The world is chaotic, and the one thing you can do for yourself is to have a routine that is yours, something that grounds you.” She explained that while I couldn’t control much, I could control how I presented myself. And as a Black woman, she reminded me, the odds were already stacked against me. “People will create a story about you before you even speak. So at least set yourself up for success by looking put together.”
Back then, I didn’t listen. Her words drifted past me while I daydreamed about recess. But years later, in my twenties, her voice returned, steady and insistent. In the chaos of carving out my place as a Black woman in the world, I found myself reaching for the ritual she had once tried to teach me.
Now, my mornings begin with prayer led by me. Sometimes I ask for help on a test, other times for clarity in a choice, but always, I give thanks for the day ahead. I intentionally wake up early, giving myself enough time to move through the morning, selecting my clothes with intention. The shapes, colors, and textures speak for me revealing who I am before I even open my mouth.
The shower has now become a quiet refuge for me. A place where warm water falls over me like a slow rhythm. I linger there, letting my thoughts settle, letting the day take shape in the calm of the moment. Afterwards, I message shea butter and body oil into my skin, covering every inch with care. I lift my bonnet and unravel the scarf that protected my braids through the night, oil my scalp, run mousse through my braids, and lay my edges. By the time I step out, I am not just dressed, but centered, grounded in the steady rhythm of my own routine.
I understand now that self-care in the morning isn’t about vanity. It’s about security. As Black women, we are seen before we speak, measured before we move. Our hair, our clothes, our skin, our faces—everything is examined, everything judged. We carry the weight of not just ourselves, but of every story the world tells about us. And yet, in the quiet of the morning, I carve out a space that is mine alone. A space where I care for myself, center myself, and find a calm the world cannot touch.
This is what my mother was teaching me all along: a morning routine is more than habit. It is protection. It is a claim to peace. It is armour. It is a ritual. It is mine.
Faith Ndansi is a final-year student at the University of Alberta. Outside of her academic pursuits, she is a passionate music enthusiast who enjoys writing about music through a sociological lens. She is deeply fascinated by the dialogue between art and music and the ways in which they continuously shape culture—and one another.
In this piece, she reflects on how her earliest experiences with self-care began in the quiet of morning with her mother’s routines. As a child, she did not understand why her mother cared so much about slowing down, choosing outfits carefully, or making time for prayer. She rushed through showers, skipped over details, and focused only on getting to school in time to play. But in her twenties, she began to understand what her mother had been teaching her all along—that a morning routine is more than a habit.
Now, prayer, dressing with intention, and caring for her skin and hair have become rituals of grounding and protection. As a Black woman, she knows the world may judge her before she speaks. Claiming her mornings is her way of finding calm, building armor, and carrying peace into the day ahead.