I Have Reservations about Self-Care

Get it?

I made reservations for Thanksgiving. And I don’t feel bad about it.

I feel like I need to give you an excuse, like the fact that I’m having a small medical procedure the day before, but that’s my shit, not your shit. I’m a grown up. I can do what I want. (I keep telling myself.)

Still, there’s this thing that I think belongs to women (mostly) that tells us sacrifice is how we become worthy of love. Love is earned. Peace is earned.

I don’t know about you, but this year I ran headfirst into something called burnout. And it’s strange because this is the first time in a long time when I felt safe and stable in all the important parts of my life. But maybe, that’s when all the feelings and fears that I held down finally found an entryway to come back up. It manifested in some serious health issues – I ended up driving myself to the hospital to avoid something for which my doctor used the words “potentially fatal.” Shit, as they say, got real.

I keep feeling like all the work I’ve done should have led me to a place where I feel settled. Like, I’ve climbed to the mountaintop, and don’t I deserve a little rest? The answer to that is a resounding YES – to me, and to you too—but the hard part is that the permission I’m looking for can’t come from somewhere else. It needs to be a call from inside the house.

I’m great at granting grace to everyone around me. I’m a good, supportive friend. I will tell you it’s okay to call out of work, encourage you to take (me to) a spa day, and fully support the canceling of any and all plans. But I have a tough time turning that good will and compassion toward myself.

It’s a practice and the only way to get good at it is to well, practice. So, my first step toward real, actual self-care (not the scented bath kind, but the kind that could remove words like “potentially fatal” and even “burnout”) is to celebrate Thanksgiving at a restaurant this year.  

I’m already full of gratitude for not to having to clean the kitchen.