The most helpful sentiments I’ve scrolled past all voice a similar message: As long as you’re abiding by the recommendations of the government and WHO, taking every precaution to keep yourself and others safe, there’s no “right” way to do self-care. You don’t need to write that novel, alphabetise your food cupboards, get in amazing shape or somehow spin this whole experience into a good thing (unless you want to, of course). The only thing any of us “needs” to do is protect our own health and the health of our communities. The rest is going to look very different from one person to the next.
I was talking to a friend on the phone this morning for whom this quarantine has served as creative fuel. “I’m going to write a children’s book,” she told me. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, and I’m finally going to do it.” For her, self-care looks like artistic output, which is wonderful. “You go, girl,” I replied. But for me? Self-care these days is a little different. I’m being really gentle with myself, avoiding negative self-talk when I find myself sleeping until 11 or feeling unshakably squirmy about the future when I know I’m comparatively so, so lucky. I’m not alphabetising anything or exercising much, but I am doing other things. Namely, a lot of face masks. I’m also pushing my skincare routine in a more sustainable direction, like by swapping disposable facial cleansing wipes for reusable options. I’m also reading my little heart out. (I just finished Such a Fun Age, a novel by Kiley Reid, which was phenomenal.)
