In recent years, we’ve heard a lot about the importance of me-time, self-care, and self-love. Instagram, TikTok, and magazine covers are full of it. Search "how to take care of yourself," and you’ll get the recipe right away: light a candle, brew some tea, use your favorite face mask, and soak in a bubbly bath. And honestly, there’s something to that. Sometimes we really do need a quiet evening, a warm cup of tea, or a deep sigh (maybe even a few whispered swear words) while wrapping ourselves in a cozy blanket on the couch and hitting play on Netflix.
But it’s always bothered me that self-care often seems to stop there. Like self-love is just a pretty, filtered photo with lavender candles and perfect, soft blankets. Like it’s the ultimate fix for every emotional wound and old trauma. The truth is, if I’m honest with myself, a steaming cup of tea might help with stress, a bad day, or fatigue—but it can’t heal decades of pain.
At least, that’s how I experienced it. For a long time, I made the mistake of thinking that if I rested enough, read, meditated, and did some “small acts of kindness” for myself, everything inside me would eventually smooth out. And I’m not saying these things don’t feel good or aren’t important.
What I do know is that the root of the problems, the real wounds, won’t be healed by all the dried lavender in the world. The childhood baggage stays with us, carried until the next bubble bath.
It took me time to understand that true self-love is not just kindness to ourselves but hard, honest work. It’s not enough to soothe the child inside me—I have to raise them. I need to give them what they missed as a child, and that’s just as tough as raising any kid. Sometimes, it takes a big dose of “tough love.”
Today, I see self-love more in showing up at the gym even when I’d rather wrap myself in a blanket and disappear from the world. Not because I “have to,” but because I owe it to myself to care for my body. To be strong. To do good for myself even when it’s hard. Self-care isn’t always silky pajamas—it’s sometimes sweaty sneakers.
For me, self-love meant going to therapy and facing the things I’d been running from. It wasn’t pretty; many times I left feeling like my soul had been wrung out. Sometimes I closed my therapist’s door thinking, “I just paid a lot of money to feel worse than I did this morning.” But I knew it was part of the journey, and even if it hurt now, a small piece of my soul was healing. Like finally cleaning a room after a long time—chaos in the middle, but relief at the end.
The truth is, self-love isn’t always pleasant. It’s not always soft and fragrant. It’s not the easy path. But if you truly love yourself, you don’t choose the easy way—because you know who you are is worth every bit of effort.
