The Care I Didn’t Want to Need

I want to be honest about something.

I’ve never really been a huge fan of the concept of self-care.

Not necessarily because I’ve never done things that would fall under the category. I’ve exercised. I’ve tried to eat well. I’ve taken time to rest. I’ve done plenty of things that could probably be labeled “self-care.”

It’s more the words themselves that I’ve never loved.

Even when I heard terms like soul care or spiritual care, something in me resisted.

And if I’m being completely honest, I think I know why.

The vulnerability of it.

The idea that I—my body, my soul, my spirit—need care.

I’m not proud of this, but somewhere along the way, needing that kind of care began to feel like weakness to me.

Self-care was for people who were struggling.

Soul care was for people who needed a little extra help.

I didn’t need that.

Or at least, that’s what I told myself.

But I’ve just finished my third infusion of chemotherapy, and my body is currently requiring more attention from me than it ever has before.

The needs are louder now.

They’re harder to ignore.

My body is asking for more rest. More nutrition. More movement. More intentionality. More attention.

And so I’ve been trying to work in concert with the care I’m receiving at the hospital—doing what I can to care for my body through exercise, nutrition, rest, and all the other things that help support the treatment.

And in the process, I’ve started thinking more about what it means to care for ourselves.

Not just physically.

Emotionally.

Spiritually.

And I keep coming back to the word care.

Because I think I’ve often viewed many of the things that could be considered personal development or self-care as a form of competition.

A way to get a leg up.

A way to gain a strategic edge.

A way to become more productive, more disciplined, more successful than the people around me.

And I don’t love that way of looking at it.

Because that way of thinking is a pretty reliable recipe for comparison.

And burnout.

And never quite feeling like enough.

You can spend your entire life trying to improve yourself without ever actually learning how to care for yourself.

And maybe that’s the shift I’m beginning to make.

What if caring for myself isn’t about gaining an advantage?

What if it isn’t about becoming more impressive?

What if it isn’t about proving that I can handle more than everyone else?

What if care is simply care?

What if my body, my soul, and my spirit are worth tending to—not because I’m weak, but because I’m human?

I think this is mostly a confession.

I’ve typically viewed the need for care as too vulnerable to embrace.

And now, in many ways, I don’t have much choice but to embrace it.

My body is making its needs known.

And maybe my soul has been making its needs known for a long time, too.

Maybe I just wasn’t willing to listen.

So I’m learning.

To care for my body without worshiping it.

To care for my soul without being ashamed of its needs.

To care for my spirit without viewing dependence as weakness.

Because perhaps needing care isn’t a sign that something is wrong with us.

Perhaps it’s simply a reminder that we were never designed to be self-sufficient.

And maybe receiving care—whether from doctors, family, friends, or God—isn’t weakness at all.

Maybe it’s one of the most honest things we can do.