Self-Care is Hard Work

Helen Chandler - 8 Jun 22

According to a lot of hashtags on Instagram, self-care is about bubble baths and spa days and massages. It’s about plucking your eyebrows or having a facial or getting a manicure. It’s about green smoothies or booking a blow dry or a fancy class in a posh gym.

I had totally absorbed that narrative, and so whenever I heard anyone say ‘self-care’ my brain went blah blah blah I don’t have time/money/inclination for any of that. Like many mums, I was too busy caring for other people to give any thought to seemingly self-indulgent nonsense.

Then a couple of months ago I found myself suffering from near daily headaches, fatigue and joint pain from my longstanding arthritis, and prey to debilitating anxiety and low mood. I struggled to reply to messages and even the school run felt like too much socialising. I kept going because I am a mother, and I have no choice. But then one day, as I was trying to complete some medical admin for my eldest daughter, the printer stopped working. I changed the cartridge, googled how to fix it, reset it, tried from a different computer – nothing. I started to cry. And basically couldn’t stop for the next 6 or 7 hours. I cried at school pick up, hoping that sunglasses and a face mask did a good enough job of covering it up. I cried in the playground, hiding behind a book while my 7 year old practised on the monkey bars. I cried instead of making dinner, and I cried into the pasta my husband made when he finally got home from work.

My husband listened to my incoherent sobs, and handed me tissues, and made me promise to make a GP appointment the next day.

I did.

And I went. And saw a lovely doctor, a woman around my own age, who didn’t judge me and, like my husband, listened to my incoherent sobs and handed me tissues. She also uttered the phrase which has been echoing round my head ever since

“You need to put your own life jacket on first”

At that moment there was a shift in my head, and self-care went from luxurious, indulgent and largely unnecessary to being what I need to do to survive, to parent effectively, to interact with the world.

Self-care is making the GP appointment and turning up to it. Self-care is going to the chemist and collecting the prescription for anti-anxiety medication and then coming home and taking it. Self-care is listening to the GP when she explains that it will be 3-4 weeks before it starts to have any beneficial effect, but persisting with it anyway. Self-care is following up the referral for talking therapy. Self-care is joining the local council gym, which isn’t glamorous or luxurious and certainly doesn’t do massages or facials, but where I can do an affordable Pilates class. Self-care is booking the gym induction and attending it and listening to the instructions for the various machines my physiotherapist suggested I use, and then going back every week and using them.

Self-care is not fun. Self-care is not particularly enjoyable. In fact making myself do it is bloody hard work. But I am trying to treat myself as my own third child – make sure she gets enough sleep, drinks enough water, eats reasonably healthily, gets some exercise and fresh air every day and takes her vitamins and prescribed medication. I am trying to accept that I am the only person who can do these things for myself, and that they are not optional and they are certainly not self-indulgent.

Helen Chandler

I'm author of novels 'Two For Joy' and 'To Have and to Hold' and mum to two daughters aged twelve and six. As well as writing, and my children, I love reading, cooking, eating and exploring London (and further afield when I get the chance). I was born and brought up in Liverpool, studied English at Oxford University, and now live in East London with my husband, daughters and cat.

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