self care & the institution
mary retta
I.
I think a part of me always knew that I was bad at self care, but it became more clear to me after my aunt got me an essential oil diffuser for Christmas last year. When I told my friends about the gift, I remember how happy and personally invested their responses were; their chorus of “you deserve it!” and “take care of yourself” reinforced the commonly accepted myth surrounding the object, the one that caused my aunt to buy me the diffuser and the reason I was supposed to accept it so happily into my life: you, ambitious yet semi-artsy twenty something, are under tremendous stress. You are looking for a way to relax that conveniently also provides you fun lighting and an interesting piece of decor. The myth was certainly based in fact, so I was surprised to learn, after bringing the diffuser back to school with me in January, that it did not help me relax at all. Choosing scents would cause me stress, cleaning the water tank felt like a chore, and when all was said and done, having my room smell like oranges never seemed to alter my frame of mind. After weeks of trying to make it work, I eventually gave up on my diffuser and left it sitting in the corner of my room, an effective reminder of how I can find panic even in things that are meant to bring joy.
Unfortunately, the diffuser fiasco is but one of many examples of how I often refuse to take care of myself. As a college student, I remember intentionally scheduling my days from the moment I wake up to the time I go to bed. I can still recall the anxiety I’d experience when too much of my day looked blank and the perverse satisfaction I would feel when I looked at my calendar and every hour was full: 8 am wake up, 10 am go to class, 1 pm study for midterm, 6 pm dinner with maya, 10 pm write your essay, rinse repeat. Though I would make sure to find time to see friends or go out on weekends, alone time would rarely make it on to the calendar. I had an optimal to do list each day and self care was at the very bottom, if it made it on the list at all.
By now we are all intimately familiar with the carefully curated rhetoric of “self care.” Though the phrase originated as a medical term in the mid 1900s to describe the sort of care needed by many professionals in high risk and emotionally draining careers, the term saw a powerful resurgence in 2016. The week after the presidential election, the term “self care” was Googled almost twice as often as it ever had been in years past. Years later, the concept of “self care” still pervades Western ideologies of comfort and luxury––we love to not only indulge in the practice, but do so loudly and publicly, and even shame others who do not share this enthusiasm.
Despite our apparent collective devotion to the practice of care, the proliferation of books, YouTube videos, and other guides instructing us on the best wellness products and methods suggests that the conditions we are living under are directly antithetical to care. This disconnect between our desire for care and our uncompromising strive for efficiency begs the question: why do we have to be taught to take care of ourselves?
II.
Though the language of self care resurfaced most prominently in 2016, the ideology was certainly present before Trump’s inauguration. Notably, a 2011 episode of “Parks and Recreation” coined the term “Treat Yo Self” which was quickly turned into a popular internet meme that many used to justify an expensive purchase, a day off from work, or any other indulgence that they deserved as a “treat.” Though the term is not as popular eleven years later, the “treat yo self” mentality is still pervasive today. Many have purported to buy certain items such as a face mask, a salt lamp, or a scented candle because they are meant to improve one’s mental health, demonstrating the ways that care and consumerism are often intricately tied.
Often, the wellness industry is not trying to sell people products, but concepts; a version of yourself that you want to become. In marketing a face mask or a scented candle to someone, corporations are saying, don’t you want to be the type of person who invests in taking care of yourself? Imagine yourself coming home after a long day and lighting this candle before you go to bed. You can be that person, if you buy this product. Of course, this mantra conveniently avoids looking at the cost of wellness products, which are notoriously expensive: luxury candles often range around $20, for example. Interestingly, many of these products are also marketed as a way for consumers to expand their spirituality; the last few years have seen a growing number of “spiritual” products such as yoni eggs and jade rollers, which are packaged as ancient, traditional tools that can help people improve their mental, emotional, and spiritual health. While jade rollers and yoni eggs both do have a long history of aiding in beautification and physical health, the Western corporations making and selling them today have no investment in those traditions––they are merely driven by profit. The popularity of these items is evidence of how the wellness industry, a $4.5 trillion market globally as of 2018, has deluded many into thinking that certain products like a salt lamp, a face serum, or a yoga mat are the key to relaxation, spirituality, and luxury and therefore exceptions from the otherwise tarnished reputation of consumerism.
Self care is not only attached to consumerism but also voyeurism, as the business and aesthetic curation of our warped idea of “wellness” has legitimately convinced many that the most worthwhile ways to take care of oneself involve dedicated beautification or financial investment. When I hear the term “self care,” the first image that pops into my mind is one of an extensive skincare routine. Both this image and the language itself––skincare, as if harsh and expensive chemicals are the kindest way to treat your skin––demonstrate where any genuine intent for care has gone awry. According to 2019 data from Vogue Business, makeup sales at companies across the world including L’oreal and Estee Lauder have declined in recent years as skincare sales have significantly increased. Upon first glance, this could be read as a good sign, and many corporations have certainly marketed this shift as an indication that we have moved on from our vanity-obsessed past into a society that admires natural beauty. However, further examination reveals that companies use the same tactics to market skin care as they did makeup: if you want to look beautiful, if you want to have radiant, naturally glowing skin, buy our product. The marketing scheme may have shifted, but the underlying tactic of using a concept, in this case the idea of “wellness” rather than “beauty,” as both an alluring idea and a method to make people feel self conscious enough to spend money, prevails. Which goes back to why I was so hesitant to tell my friends I didn’t like my oil diffuser: because deep down I knew that if my version of self care cannot be curated, if it does not make me more beautiful or my aesthetic more pleasing, it is less valuable, and not worthy of speaking about.
III.
Often missing from the discussion surrounding self care is an examination of who can most easily practice it. By its very definition, self care conveys that one must take time for themself to do something for pleasure rather than monetary or productivity purposes. But if someone shares a bedroom for example, or works multiple jobs and doesn’t have a night off all week, or has a child with special needs who can’t be left alone for hours on end, they are significantly less likely to have time and space to prioritize this sort of rejuvenating alone time. These nuances are often ignored when discussing self care, and instead of addressing the class privilege that often accompanies whether or not someone can throw on a face mask and chill at any hour of the day, individuals are often shamed for not prioritizing focused alone time regardless of the particular circumstances that might hinder them from doing so.
Interestingly, no one is more outspoken about the dire need for self care than those in positions of power. Managers, politicians, and those who govern universities and large corporations love to benevolently insist that those under their jurisdiction must slow down, rest up, and take care of themselves. Of course, this rhetoric not only lacks concrete guidelines as to how people can pursue care under stressful work or school conditions but also completely ignores the ways in which these powerful entities have shaped the conditions that have caused us to need care so desperately. During the last few months of my final semester of college, for example, I received weekly emails from the President of the school encouraging me to join her on a virtual tea time so that I can decompress from the stress of online classes with her and my peers. These messages, while charming in their own right, also came as a slap in the face in the wake of the school’s continual refusal to allow a more just grading system, provide reasonable tuition refunds, or otherwise present comprehensive accommodations that would make it easier for students to take care of themselves on a daily basis.
Of course, this issue supersedes universities. I think often of how, in New York City, government officials encouraged citizens to clap for front line workers every night at 7 pm instead of providing them with proper protective equipment or increasing their pay. While the pandemic has certainly exacerbated these hypocrites, they existed long before. Healthcare is most often attached to employment, for example, demonstrating how our government believes we should only be able to take care of our physical health if we also commit to a 40 hour work week. This pattern is evidence of the ways that those in power utilize a broken promise of care to slap a bandaid over the gaping hole of endless labor and stress that they have created and are unwilling or unable to mend.
IV.
Under capitalism, care is conditional. We squeeze in a “self care night” after work once a month or we slap on a face mask while responding to emails. We are used to care in doses, doled out only when we’ve worked ourselves so hard and for so long that we are willing to seek out any antidote. Self care is also often framed as indulgent: a guilty pleasure we allow ourselves once in a blue moon, as a treat. However, if practiced with intention, self care is not indulgent at all, and actually requires immense discipline.
In her 1988 collection of essays, “A Burst of Light,” Black feminist scholar Audre Lorde meditates on the purpose of care, noting, “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence. It is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.” In a 2018 talk with Afropunk, Angela Davis similarly chronicles her rocky relationship with care, noting that she first began regularly taking care of her body through a daily yoga practice while in prison, and now insists that all activists must take time to prioritize “mental, corporal, and spiritual self care” to sustain themselves in any movement. Both scholars touch on an element of care that should be obvious but is often forgotten: despite an oversaturation of images of spirituality or pampering when it comes to wellness, what care looks like will vary greatly depending on the person. In Black feminist politic, self care means checking in regularly on your emotional state, it means listening to your body and moving it regularly, it means setting boundaries with people who do not show you love. It is a highly individualized act that takes practice; it means learning to know what you need and allowing yourself to need things even when that feels impossible.
For me, one of the most accurate depictions of self care that I’ve seen in recent popular media comes from a rather unlikely source: Mac Miller. The video for Miller’s 2018 song, “Self Care,” shows the rapper trapped in a tiny box with little light, casually smoking, pushing against the walls of his confined space. Though the video can certainly be interpreted in many ways, I resonated deeply with Miller’s visuals, and agree with the artist’s association between self care and forced alone time. Often, self care can mean removing yourself from crowds, turning away from all distractions, turning off your mind, and really sitting with your own thoughts and needs, no matter how suffocating or uncomfortable that might feel.
I have come to realize that in my current life circumstances, giving myself the regular sort of care that I crave is impossible. I move too fast, I’m too far from loved ones, I’m too unstable in my mental health, and I don’t have real ways to fix any of that. Rather than let this knowledge defeat me, I am choosing to let it radicalize me. I am choosing to find moments in my day to look after myself, to write to do lists and try my hardest to put self care at the very top: Today I will breathe deeply. I will read over my morning coffee. I will go for a walk and I’ll text a friend. I will hug my sister. I will listen to my white woman angst playlist. I will journal my dreams for the future.
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xoxo
mary <3