ELLE Australia|January/February 2020
I love the word self-care. It covers all manner of sins, doesn’t it? Cancelling Friday-night plans at the last minute to stay in. Eating peanut butter straight from the jar. Face masks. Bubble baths. Adding to cart with gleeful abandon. In many ways, it has become the “get out of jail free” card for all those mini indulgences, the word being bandied about with “treat yourself” and “YOLO”. But thanks to all the buzz around self-care, somewhere along the way, it has started to feel meaningless.
Self-care, for a long time, was something I subscribed to whole-heartedly. But when I moved to the other side of the world, I began to question if sun salutations and mani-pedis were enough to quell the anxiety and loneliness that comes with uprooting your entire life. They weren’t.
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