The Gospel of Glow
It starts with a candle. “Treat yourself,” it whispers, as if lavender-scented wax can heal the gaping void in your soul. I am there too, buying a $40 face mask because a stranger on Instagram swore it would fix my life. We call it self-care, but it’s the most expensive guilt trip ever invented.
We’ve replaced rest with rituals, and the only thing we’re healing is the economy. The rules are simple: every bath bomb is a baptism, every yoga pose is a prayer, and every “wellness” product is a tithe. We behave as if the cure for burnout is a subscription box, even though the only thing it delivers is debt.
The Performance of Peace
Self-care isn’t about feeling better; it’s about looking like you feel better. The fitness guy doesn’t just meditate; he posts a time-lapse of his “journey.” The influencer doesn’t just drink water; she does it from a $60 crystal-infused bottle. The “authentic” mom doesn’t just take a break; she shares a photo of her “me time” with the caption, “You can’t pour from an empty cup.” The problem isn’t the care; it’s the theater. We’re all auditioning for a role in a play no one wants to watch.
My favorite genre is performative relaxation. Today’s episode: someone brags about their “self-care routine,” as if bubble baths are a personality. They’ll post a thread about “setting boundaries,” conveniently leaving out the part where they spent three hours curating the post. The relaxation is real, but the serenity is staged. It’s the human equivalent of lighting a candle in a hurricane and calling it calm.
The Narcissism of Nurture
Every wellness product is a mirror, and we’re all staring at our reflections, wondering if we’re worth it. Spoiler: we’re not, but this $99 mindfulness app might help. The algorithm knows your insecurities better than your therapist. It whispers, “You deserve this,” and we believe it because the alternative is admitting we don’t. We buy to feel whole, but the feeling expires faster than the bathwater.
The joke is that we’re not practicing self-care; we’re performing it. The bio changes from “person” to “wellness advocate” overnight, and with it comes the solemn duty to post a thread about “healing.” We think this is growth, but it’s just branding with extra steps.
The exchange rate
Relaxation converts to stress at a rate of roughly one wellness product per existential crisis. Side effects include clutter, debt, and the sinking realization that you’re just a walking Pinterest board.
The Panic of the Pause
We laugh at toddlers throwing tantrums, yet we panic harder when the spa runs out of appointments. No new products? Suddenly we’re philosophers considering the void. The bath bomb dissolves, and grown adults stare at the water like they’re meeting God. We’re not relaxed; we’re terrified. Without the rituals, we might have to think about the life we’re avoiding.
Self-care is anesthesia. It numbs the day’s bruises with infinite little hits. Each product is a bandage over a larger wound, and we keep layering them until the body cannot breathe. We call it healing, but it feels like speed dating with our own insecurities, and everyone is lying about their progress.
Hypocrisy Is the House Style
The platform rewards extremes, so we oblige. We drag the “toxic” for not resting, then post about “self-care” while answering emails in the bath. We condemn consumerism while sharing our “wellness” hauls. We mock influencers while secretly envying their glow. The hypocrisy isn’t a bug; it’s the business model. We’re needy, narcissistic, spineless clowns taking turns at the spa and acting offended when someone points it out.
I am not above any of this. I have bought a journal I never used. I have pretended to “unplug” while secretly scrolling. I have mistaken products for peace. The critique is a mirror, and the mirror is smudged with my fingerprints.
The House Always Wins
The platforms know the math. Keep the rituals slightly worse than effective, and people will chase the next hit. Serve guilt next to indulgence so users oscillate between shame and spending, two emotions that never log off. Hide the cure behind endless products; the slot machine handle is your thumb. Show you ads that suggest you could be better if only you bought the thing, joined the trend, or downloaded the app promising to “simplify your life” by complicating it.
We supply the content for free. We even defend the system when critics ask questions. We call it “self-care” while the house counts our dollars like chips. The most disturbing part is how reasonable it feels. Of course I should buy this candle instead of resting. Of course I should ask strangers if my routine is valid. Of course the best place to process grief is a spa. It’s absurd, and somehow it’s Tuesday.
The Quiet Sting
The punchline is simple: the audience we pretend isn’t watching is very much watching, and we’re performing anyway. The neighbor you despise noticed your glow. The coworker you admire saw your “me time” post and said nothing. The ex you blocked has a new account and knows exactly how often you shop. There’s no such thing as private self-care, only dimmer lights.
Maybe the only honest move is to admit we’re addicted to the ritual. We want someone, anyone, to confirm we’re worth it. We could stop buying, but then who would notice? We could keep buying, but then who are we doing it for? The curtain never falls. The show goes on because we keep clapping for ourselves.
So here’s the mirror, held low and steady: we are the buyers, the sellers, the critics, and the janitors mopping up spilled lavender. The circus is us. If that stings, good. Maybe that itch is the first real feeling we’ve had all day.