Yes, I admit it. I am a creature of habit. I lived in the same house in Surrey for 19 years, I was with the same man (Jeremy) from the age of 21 to 40, I taught the same dance classes for 15 years. I liked things the way they were: predictable, familiar, anchored. It made me feel safe.

Then life intervened.

Jeremy’s cancer diagnosis in 2014 changed everything and after he died, I was plunged into a world that no longer felt recognisable. For a while, I went into retreat mode — grieving, isolating, trying to make sense of this new, unwanted life. But eventually, I flipped the script completely, and I rejected stability. If life could change in an instant, I figured I might as well lean into chaos.

I dated multiple men but each one never for very long, learnt to ride a motorbike, travelled extensively, put my house up for rent and moved to London for a short time. I mistook motion for healing. It was my nervous system’s way of coping – of avoiding the stillness that might bring the grief flooding back.

Then I came to Kenya. This was meant to be a short visit on my first leg of a tour around the world. But a short stay turned long-term. I met Amar, and even though I kept telling him I would leave very soon, I stayed. First the world shut down because of Covid and I was “stuck” here. Then I realised I actually wanted to be here – with Amar.

That was five years ago, and in that time, I moved often — from my aunt’s house, to my own rented accommodation, then in and out of places with Amar, until we finally landed where we are now – an apartment in Nairobi.

And somewhere along the way, I began to build a life again – one with rhythm and roots, especially when we made the cabin in Nanyuki that I had built in 2018, a base. And now we’re building a new house next to the cabin – a home that will be our sanctuary. And in this time, I’ve gone from craving constant change to treasuring consistency. My nervous system exhales every time we return to base.

Which brings me to what happened this week – Amar shaved his beard.

It may sound small, even silly, but I was completely unprepared for how much it would throw me.

He hasn’t been clean-shaven since he was 18. And in the five years I’ve reconnected with him since we were children, I’ve only known him with a beard. He is the first man I dated who had one, and I loved it. To me, it was part of his identity. When I touched his face, it grounded me. If I had my eyes closed, I’d know it was him. That’s how deeply that sensory association had embedded itself in my nervous system. Without the beard, he felt unfamiliar and I had a visceral reaction. Looking at him, kissing him, touching his face felt… strange, disorientating, somewhat emotionally jarring.

So why does something so seemingly superficial feel so intense?

From a scientific and therapeutic point of view, it actually makes a lot of sense.

Our brains are hardwired for familiarity. Recognising the faces of those we love is a survival instinct. From the moment we are born, we seek out faces, especially our mother’s, as a source of comfort, nourishment, and safety. The neural pathways in the brain develop strong associations between facial features and feelings of security and connection. When those features shift, even slightly, it disrupts that internal map. It’s not just about visual recognition, but about emotional recognition.

Facial hair, for many people, plays a surprisingly deep role in physical intimacy. It’s not just an aesthetic preference, but is a sensory cue. The feel of someone’s stubble, the way it brushes against your skin, the look of their silhouette — these are encoded in the body’s sense memory. It becomes part of how we “know” someone.

There are biological and evolutionary reasons too. Beards have historically been linked to maturity, masculinity, strength — all subtle cues in mate selection and attraction. But beyond the science, there’s the deeply personal.

For me, Amar’s beard wasn’t just facial hair. In fact, it symbolised stability, sensuality, safety, and perhaps most importantly, home.

And when it disappeared, I felt unmoored — not because I don’t love him without it, but because my system needed time to catch up with this new version of him. The man I trust hasn’t changed, but the cues my nervous system relies on, had. It was like walking into your childhood home and finding all the furniture rearranged. Same place, same walls, but not the same feeling.

Change does that, even the small kind. It disrupts and ultimately reveals our need for grounding. It highlights the delicate threads that tie us to what we call “home.”

As a healer and a coach, I often talk to clients about the somatic and emotional impacts of change. We tend to think we are reacting to circumstances but more often, we’re reacting to what those changes represent. A beard may just be hair, but it’s also familiarity, recognition and comfort. And when that’s taken away, the body, quite literally, notices.

So no, it’s not about the beard. It’s about what it meant.

It’s a reminder to us all, myself included, that we can honour our reactions to change, even when they feel disproportionate. Our emotions don’t always follow logic, they follow memory, body and belief. And sometimes, a small change reminds us just how much the familiar matters, and how we’re all still learning to sit with change, one moment at a time.

Until next time, stay inspired!

Shalini