The Work of Self-Care 

I recently read a passage from a book which deconstructs the biblical story of Christ healing a woman with chronic bleeding: 
 
“The healing was thorough and complete. It not only gave her body back to her but also gave her body back to other bodies. She was made whole for herself and for the sake of community. Her body was the site for salvation.” 
 
Rather than focusing on the supernatural miracle of healing, she points out that the woman would no longer have been ritually unclean after the bleeding stopped. Healing the woman also allowed her to return to whatever family and community she may have had: a husband, children, parents, siblings, friends, neighbors. 
 
This story pierced through my well-intentioned but misguided attempts at mommy martyrdom in a way that all the “gram-worthy” platitudes about #selfcare could not. Caring for my body, mind and spirit is not a luxury, nor a sellout to some hedonistic millennial marketing scheme. It is, in fact, the only way to bring some balance and wholeness into my family. 
 
I’ve lived with an eating disorder on and off since I was 18. Depression stalks me at every major life transition. My self-worth bears scars that still bleed from time to surprising time. In other words, I have the unique ability to make my marriage miserable and profoundly screw up my child. (Sound familiar, or is this just me?) I don’t want to do any of those things, of course. There are a lot of better things I want to do. And so I must be healed of the bleeding. 
 
Sometimes I think our culture rewards those who try to play hurt with “glad that’s not me” admiration (which is a pretty crummy reward, if you ask me). We also have a disturbing tendency to shame any path that seems easy. 
 
“Why are you hiring a babysitter/housekeeper/grocery delivery person if you’re a stay-at-home mom?” Because I’ll climb the walls and break things if I step on one more Lego today. Next question. 
 
“Oh, you’re supplementing with formula? Gee, I wish I could have that freedom sometimes.” Oh, you can. You can also spend 10 hours a day away from your infant and hook yourself up to a mechanical calf every day during your lunch break and tell me how much you like “freedom.” 
 
“You don’t really need antidepressants or therapy. Just get some more sunshine!” 
 
I have made more than a few choices that made life pretty difficult for me and my family. All of those choices boil down to not choosing to take care of myself. Some were made out of ignorance, like not realizing that the four-month sleep regression might not actually fix itself. But most were made out of an adherence to some arbitrary standard of perfection (and perhaps some stress-induced inertia). 
 
I drove myself nuts for more than six months trying to get my milk supply up before supplementing with formula because I thought that “Breast is best” meant “Formula is formaldehyde.” (It’s not.) Almost overnight, I was a happier, more energetic mom. Because I had taken a year off work while our family lived on my husband’s measly graduate school stipend, I resisted finding and paying for child care. But when we found a reliable babysitter and then eventually started our son in part-time day care, I was able to exercise, go to therapy and finally do meaningful work (and make good money!) again. And I was a happier, more balanced wife and mother for it. 
 
My previous attempts at recovery from my eating disorder always seemed to have trouble sticking. (Though I would argue that recovering from an eating disorder isn’t like recovering from chicken pox — one and done; it’s more like recovering from alcoholism. You may go years without a problem, but you have to remain vigilant when stress or other triggers arise.) In my most recent relapse, it was tempting, as always, to write it off as something I would just have to live with. But there’s so much more at stake now. I can choose to work on getting better and thus bring a healed, fuller, more available self to my family. Or I can choose to keep bleeding out and isolating myself from those who love and need me most. 
 
If I had to do the backbreaking and soul-grinding work of breaking bad habits, healing emotional wounds and at least tapping the brakes on generational sin, I would honestly probably quit. But I’ve been reminded that when I am made more whole, I am able to rejoin community. And that thought is more motivating than any promises of massages or pedicures. (Though I will happily accept both, please and thank you!) 
 
For all you mamas who struggle with self-care, it’s not just for you, though it wouldn’t be wrong if it were. It’s for your children, your partner, your friends, your community. And it’s not so you can better care for all those other people either, because that would just be mommy martyrdom all over again. Our children, families and communities don’t need exhausted, overspent martyrs: They need us to be as fully and wholly present as possible so we can be part of something bigger and better than ourselves.