Self-Care or Selfishness?

It is a fragile line, apparently. Invisible from the outside. Encouraged, as long as it doesn’t compromise another person's want.  

This is how we learn that it is not safe to choose ourselves.

So we learn to quiet. To bury our tender, fractured hearts. We learn that creating space for the sacredness of ourselves is shameful. We discover that denying the cultivation of that sacredness keeps us confined, contained; that the paradigms shaping us were designed that way. We learn that consideration and grace are not ours to claim.

We learn that some things are particularly reprehensible: our happiness, our intelligence, our light, our rise. Anything that looks like freedom. We’re told that we can’t pour from an empty cup; we learn that it’s unacceptable to fill our own. 

We learn that loving ourselves is radical. We learn that there is so much for us to unlearn. 

Like so many women, I have been taught that my humanity is nonexistent. That simply having basic needs is an inconvenience. A burden. That my vulnerability will be weaponized, met with acrimony, dismissiveness. That anything valuable within my being is solely for the consumption of others. That I am not deserving of care, respect, love without conditions . . . even my own. Especially my own. I've been taught that centering my wellness is the epitome of selfishness. That I am expected to remain welcoming, accessible, malleable, supportive. That reciprocity has no place, here.

I think about the proposed 1918 city ordinance in Greenville, South Carolina that would require Black women to work outside of the home because white families felt entitled their labor: 

Regardless of whether they want to or have to, able bodied negro women in Greenville who are not regularly employed are to be put to work, put in jail or fined heavily.

A number of complaints have come to members of Council of negro women who are not at work and who refuse employment when it is offered them, the result being that it is exceedingly difficult for families who need cooks and laundresses to get them. Wives of colored soldiers, getting a monthly allowance from the Government, have, a number of them, declined to work on the ground that they can get along without working, according to reports. Others have flatly refused jobs without giving any reason whatever. . .

This is the expectation that has been woven through generations; that our physical, mental, emotional, and/or spiritual support should be selflessly given to anyone seeking it: family, friends, colleagues, employers, strangers. That withholding it is not an option. That retribution is the natural, just consequence if we choose to choose ourselves, first.

I think about a social media video from a South Asian man in the UK, recalling that his mother advised his brother to find a Black woman if he was in a difficult situation while away at university and didn't know where to turn; because Black women will always take care of you.

I think about the space I hold for others that I learned to deny myself.

What does self-care look like when the demands beyond us are endless, when we are expected to carry the weight that others refuse to bear?

I think of the lineage of women before me, tracing my fingers along the taut line from their pain to mine. I think of the guilt that rises when I consider my own exhaustion, incomparable the brutality they endured. I wonder if, and how, they created softness for themselves. Perhaps a favorite sweet, savored and gifted. A garment lovingly crafted, mended. An unbridled body, taken by rhythm. A special meal, prepared, shared, consumed with love. A moment of silent communion with the setting sun.

I think of the small ways that I am returning to myself. The refuge of a few words, written or read, embracing me. Music that rearranges me. A quiet morning wrapped in the gentle glow of a new day. A cup of tea: oolong, jasmine green, mint, Matte Leão, rooibos, hibiscus, listening to what my body craves.

I think about the rewiring it takes to allow myself to embrace my radiance, my peace, my joy. To bask in my own love, unapologetically. I am learning to give myself permission. To rest. To hope. To nourish my own heart. To relax into simple beauty when the world feels unbearable. To follow the internal melodies that call me home. To embody the unique mosaic of my existence. To smile until my soul remembers that it’s natural.

I think about the current generations of women engaging in the challenging work of dismantling the patterns that our foremothers didn’t have the space, the capacity to meet.

I know that we need to give ourselves room to breathe. To inhabit who we are, fully. To recognize the breakable parts of ourselves that often go unnamed. To remember that trauma isn't our only legacy, that serenity is ours to claim.

I think of my ancestors flowing through my body's tributaries, to my heart.

I hope I honor them.