Rising Rooted

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February gets marketed like a glittery hallway leading to Valentine’s Day.

And yet, for a lot of us, February actually arrives with a quieter truth: we’re tired.

So here’s the angle I want to offer—not from above, not as an expert who has it all figured out, but as someone still learning how to keep promises to herself in the real world:

Self-care isn’t a luxury add-on. It’s how we build the capacity to love—ourselves included—without resentment, depletion, or self-abandonment.

Not love as performance.

Love as a living thing that requires fuel.

And, importantly, self-care doesn’t have to become another job.

When “self-care” is just… more

For a long time, my relationship with self-care was pretty surface-level.

I did the things you’re “supposed” to do.

I took baths. I lit candles. I used essential oils. I booked the occasional massage when money allowed.

However, I remember thinking: I’m doing all of this… where is my energy?

Especially in the seasons when I was deep in burnout—when I was genuinely sick from pushing too hard—pop psychology self-care didn’t land. It felt like a costume I was putting on over exhaustion.

And then came the second layer: the self-blame.

If everyone else gets energy from these things, and I don’t… what’s wrong with me?

That question is a quiet kind of cruelty.

It also makes perfect sense in a culture that treats human beings like machines.

If something isn’t working, the logic goes, you must be doing it wrong.

But what if the issue isn’t you?

What if the issue is the definition?

Self-care isn’t “adding more”—it’s deepening relationship

I’m not here to police anyone’s pleasures.

Bodywork is real care. A massage can be medicine.

Buying yourself something beautiful can be a form of receiving—especially if you’re a chronic giver.

And still: a lot of modern self-care is sold as adding more—more products, more routines, more purchases, more steps.

That approach can accidentally turn self-care into another performance.

Meanwhile, the nervous system stays depleted.

So here’s the reframe I’ve been learning the hard way:

Self-care isn’t always about adding. Often, it’s about relating.

It’s about building a relationship with your body, your energy, your mind, your limits, your tenderness. Because once self-care becomes relational, the same action can shift from “a task” into “care.”

A bath, for example, can be scrolling in hot water.

Or, instead, it can be: being with your body.

That difference matters.

The archetype I’m calling in: the Good-Enough Inner Caregiver

When I picture self-care that actually works, I don’t picture a flawless wellness routine.

I picture an inner figure.

Not a perfect mother. Not a perfect father.

A good-enough inner caregiver.

The one who gives you what you truly need—without shaming you, and without giving you everything you want just to quiet the discomfort.

This inner caregiver is tender and boundaried.

They don’t speak to you like a drill sergeant.

However, they also don’t abandon you to your impulses.

They say things like:

• I know you don’t want to put your boots on.
• And I also know fresh air will help.
• Let’s go gently. We’ll go for ten minutes. We can come back.

That’s self-care.

Not because it’s glamorous.

Because it’s love with a spine.

How I know my capacity is running low

This part is unromantic, but it’s useful.

When my capacity is dropping, I usually notice it in layers:

• I get more irritable.
• My nervous system feels braced, like there’s a constant hum under my skin.
• My body gets achy in that vague, confusing way.
• Emotionally, I slide toward anxiety… or that slow-burn depression that sneaks in quietly.
• Relationally, I withdraw. Or I snap.

In other words: I become less like myself.

And when I ignore those signals, my partner tends to get the brunt of it.

So do the other people I love. So do my ideas.

That’s the piece people don’t say enough:

Self-care affects how we are able to show up in relationships.

A somatic check-in

If you’re open to it, pause here for a moment.

Let your shoulders drop—just a few millimetres.

Then notice your jaw. If it’s clenched, soften it. If it isn’t, simply notice.

Now ask yourself: Do I have enough right now?

Not enough for your whole life. Just enough for this hour.

Where do you feel the answer in your body?

Maybe “enough” feels like warmth in your chest. Maybe “not enough” feels like buzzing behind your eyes, or a tight belly, or a hard throat.

No fixing required.

This is just information. And information does not need to devolve into self-judgment.

Self-care vs self-indulgence: generosity is the difference

I want to name something honestly: I’ve confused self-care and self-indulgence plenty of times.

I’m impulsive by nature.

I like nice things. I love giving myself little rewards.

And sometimes, that veers into online shopping spirals or quick dopamine fixes that don’t actually replenish me.

So what’s the difference?

Here’s how I currently understand it (and I’m still refining this):

Generosity feels nourishing. Indulgence often feels numbing.

Generosity has a warmth to it. It leaves you more resourced afterward.

Indulgence might feel good in the moment, but it can leave you feeling foggy, guilty, or more depleted.

Importantly, this isn’t a moral category.

It’s a nervous system category.

Which means you get to learn it through experience, not rules.

What self-care looks like in my real life

My self-care isn’t consistent. It isn’t aesthetic. And it definitely isn’t perfect.

It’s a relationship I keep returning to.

1) Making the mundane magical

A huge shift for me was befriending ordinary care.

For example, I used to hate cooking. It felt like a chore I resented. Then, slowly, I started treating it like a gift to my body.

Not every day. Not every meal.

However, when I do it with presence—even play—it changes everything.

Sometimes that means I cook with music on, toddler bopping around the kitchen, chaos everywhere. Sometimes it means I cook meditatively, feeling the knife in my hand, the scent of garlic, the warmth of the stove.

Either way, the reframe is the same: This meal is care. This is me feeding my life.

And somehow, that makes it replenishing.

2) Cleaning as a spell (because why not?)

I made my own cleaners with vinegar, water, and essential oils. Then I put a tiny gemstone in each bottle.

Is that necessary? No.

Does it make cleaning feel less like punishment and more like tending my home? Yes.

In other words: I’m not optimizing the chore. I’m relating to it.

3) Self-massage (winter medicine)

This is one of my favourites—especially in February.

I warm up sesame oil in my hands, rub them together, and spend ten minutes massaging my arms, legs, belly, neck, feet.

And I talk to my body the way I talk to my toddler:

I love you. Thank you. You’re carrying so much. I’m here.

Then I get into the bath.

I swear something shifts. It’s like my nervous system leans right back into the relationship with me.

4) Putting the phone down and reading

This one is deceptively powerful.

I go through waves: sometimes I’m reading constantly, and then I get sucked back into the scroll. Still, whenever I return to reading—real books, real pages—I feel my mind quiet in a way that’s hard to replicate.

5) Staying in relationship with nature (even in winter)

This relationship often suffers when I get caught up in the hustle bustle of life. It can be hard to get outside. And yet, even ten minutes being present to the fresh air changes something in me.

Not because nature fixes me. Because it reminds me I’m part of something living.

The part people forget: self-care is how you protect love

Self-care isn’t just self-focused. It’s relational.

When I tend myself well, something starts to overflow.

Not in a saccharine way—more like a quiet spaciousness.

I have more patience. I have more generosity. I have more capacity to contribute in ways that feel aligned, not resentful.

That’s why I care about this topic.

Because love—real love—needs fuel.

And if your fuel tank is empty, “just try harder” is not a strategy. It’s a recipe for self-abandonment.

An eco-somatic ritual: tending the hearth

If you have access to a candle or a fire, try this.

Light it.

Then sit with it for a few minutes—not as a performance, not as a productivity ritual. Just a small, honest pause.

If you’re open to it, ask:

What keeps me warm without burning me out?

Let the flame teach you.

• A flame needs fuel, but too much fuel can smother it.
• A flame needs air, but too much wind can extinguish it.

Then bring it back to your life:

• Where are you starved of fuel?
• Where are you overfeeding the wrong things?
• Where do you need protection?
• Where do you need air?

If you want to stretch this over a week, you can return to that question each night and write one line:

“Today, warmth looked like…”

Simple. Ordinary. Real.

A closing doorway

This post isn’t here to tell you what self-care “should” look like.

It’s here to offer another perspective:

Self-care as relationship. Self-care as tending. Self-care as the groundwork for love—romantic love, friendship love, community love, self-love.

In February, when love starts getting marketed as a performance, I want to bring it back to something more ancient and more honest:

Care is how we keep love alive.

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If this spoke to something in you, there are a few paths you can follow from here:

Each door leads somewhere different. It is my hope that all of them lead back to you.

<3 Rachel