The Problem With ‘Self-Care’ That Nobody Talks About
Like much of the world, I’m currently clawing my way out of the wreckage of the last few years.
I suspect we’re in the eye of the storm, but I’ll take what I can get: schools are open, boosters work, we haven’t yet started World War III (I think?). Things aren’t perfect, but it’s enough to catch my breath.
So, for the first time since the birth of my daughter, I’m finally doing the thing everyone keeps telling American women to do: self-care.
To be clear, I’m not taking candlelit mud baths or buying jade vagina eggs. I have neither the budget nor the stomach for Goop-y hocus-pocus. I’m talking about “self-care” as basic life hygiene. Exercise. Sleep. Food.
I kind of hate it. It’s a chore — I had to buy equipment, schedule events, and haggle with insurance companies.
But here I am: Making a dentist appointment. Jotting down a gratitude list. Going to bed early. Letting an aerobics instructor shriek “WOO! YEAH!” in my sweaty, burnt-out face. Journaling. Meditating.
I’m doing self-care.
Woo. Yeah.
