The Running Tap

Someone tells you to look after yourself. You agree that you will, butwhen things die down. You'll book something. A massage, a weekend away, maybe that retreat.

Notice what self-care just became: an appointment. Something that happens to you, on a table, at a scheduled time, after the damage is done.

Now watch the week itself.

The yes to a request you didn't have room for. The problem you took on that wasn't yours because you're the one who copes. The phone that stays on. That's where the wear actually happens - drip by drip, all week and none of it is touched by an hour in a robe.

Real self-care is more subtle than a booking. It's a no, said early. A task handed back. An evening left empty on purpose. It's free, it's available today and it's harder than the massage. Which is the tell.

Because somewhere, you learned that carrying everything is the job. That no isn't ok. So care got exiled to the calendar, where it can't interfere with the carrying.

You've been mopping the floor with the tap still running. The mop was never the problem. But nobody asks about the tap.