When Self-Care Feels Impossible (And What I Do Instead)

I'm supposed to be good at this.

I teach people about nervous system regulation, self-compassion, and finding gentle ways back to themselves. I've created programmes about trauma recovery. I speak at conferences about supporting survivors through crisis.

And yet, some weeks, basic self-care feels absolutely impossible.

This week has been one of those weeks.

 

When Your Body Won't Cooperate

I live with MS. Multiple sclerosis. Some days it's manageable, almost forgettable. Other days, it's the loudest thing in my life.

This week, my body decided to remind me who's actually in charge.

Fatigue that makes lifting a kettle feel like climbing a mountain. Brain fog that turns simple sentences into linguistic puzzles. Pain that shifts and moves, never quite settling, never quite leaving.

And in the middle of all this, I'm supposed to practice self-care.

You know, the kind you see on Instagram. The bubble baths with candles. The journaling with perfect handwriting. The yoga poses that look effortless and serene.

Except I can barely stand in the shower without needing to sit down afterwards. My handwriting is illegible on good days. And yoga? My body laughed at that suggestion.

So what do you do when self-care feels impossible?

 

The Pressure to Do It Right

Here's what I've noticed, both in myself and in the survivors I work with: we've turned self-care into another thing we can fail at.

It's become this measurement of how well we're coping. If you're doing self-care “right,” you must be healing properly. If you're not managing it, you must not be trying hard enough.

That's rubbish.

Self-care isn't a performance. It's not something you earn gold stars for. It's not a linear path from “broken” to “fixed.”

Self-care, real self-care, is messy. It's inconsistent. It looks different on different days. And sometimes, it's simply about survival, not thriving.

But we don't talk about that part, do we?

We don't talk about the days when self-care means staying in bed because getting up feels impossible. We don't talk about eating cereal for dinner because cooking is too overwhelming. We don't talk about cancelling plans, lowering expectations, or choosing the path of least resistance because that's all we have capacity for.

We should talk about that. Because that's real. That's honest. And that's often what self-care actually looks like when you're navigating chronic illness, trauma, neurodiversity, or perimenopause. Or all of them at once.

 

What I Do Instead

So when traditional self-care feels impossible, what do I do instead?

I lower the bar. Dramatically.

Instead of a morning routine, I ask myself one question: What's the smallest thing I can do today that won't make tomorrow harder?

Sometimes that's drinking a glass of water. Sometimes it's taking my medication. Sometimes it's sending one text message to a friend saying, “I'm struggling today.”

That's it. That's the bar.

Instead of pushing through, I rest without guilt. Or at least, I try to rest without guilt. The guilt still shows up, whispering that I'm lazy, that I should be doing more, that everyone else manages just fine.

But I'm learning to recognise that voice for what it is: internalised ableism, trauma responses, and societal conditioning that says rest has to be earned.

It doesn't. Rest is a biological necessity, not a reward for productivity.

Instead of forcing my body to cooperate, I work with what I have. If standing in the kitchen to cook feels impossible, I sit. If I can't manage a walk, I open a window and breathe fresh air from where I am. If I can't focus on reading, I listen to something instead.

I adapt. I adjust. I stop pretending that pushing harder will somehow make my body behave differently.

Instead of doing it alone, I ask for help. This one still feels hard. Really hard. Because asking for help means admitting I can't manage everything myself. It means being vulnerable. It means risking rejection or judgment.

But I'm learning that asking for help isn't weakness. It's wisdom. It's recognising my limits and honouring them instead of bulldozing past them until I collapse.

 

The Self-Care No One Talks About

You want to know what self-care really looks like some days?

It's crying in the shower because everything hurts and you're so tired of hurting.

It's saying no to things you desperately want to do because you know your body won't cope.

It's letting the dishes pile up. Letting the laundry wait. Letting perfectionism take a back seat because survival is the priority.

It's accepting that some days, you won't be productive, inspirational, or even particularly functional. And that's okay.

It's recognising that healing isn't linear. Recovery isn't linear. Living with chronic illness or trauma isn't linear.

Some weeks are good. Some weeks are terrible. Most weeks are somewhere in between.

And self-care has to flex with that reality, not fight against it.

 

What I've Learned About Self-Compassion

If there's one thing I'd tell my younger self, the one who thought she had to do everything perfectly or not at all, it's this:

Self-compassion isn't about being kind to yourself when you're doing well. It's about being kind to yourself when you're struggling.

It's about looking at the hard days, the messy days, the days when nothing goes right, and still treating yourself with gentleness.

Not because you've earned it. Not because you're doing self-care “correctly.” But because you're human, and being human is hard enough without adding self-criticism to the mix.

I'm still learning this. Still catching myself in moments of harsh self-judgment. Still having to remind myself that I deserve compassion even when I'm not performing wellness properly.

But I'm getting better at it. Slowly. Messily. Imperfectly.

Which is exactly how it should be.

 

Permission to Do Less

If you're reading this and you're struggling with self-care right now, here's what I want you to know:

You don't have to do it right. You don't have to do it at all some days.

You have permission to lower your expectations. To rest without earning it. To ask for help. To do the absolute bare minimum and call that enough.

Because sometimes, survival is self-care. Sometimes, making it through the day is self-care. Sometimes, choosing the easier option instead of the “better” one is self-care.

You're not failing. You're adapting. You're working with what you have. You're being human in a world that expects superhuman resilience.

And that's not just okay. That's brave.

 

What This Week Taught Me

This week reminded me, again, that I don't have all the answers. That living with chronic illness means constantly adjusting expectations. That the work I do with survivors comes from a place of shared struggle, not from some place of having it all figured out.

And honestly? I think that's important.

Because the survivors I work with don't need someone who's perfect. They need someone who's real. Someone who understands that healing is messy, recovery is non-linear, and some days, self-care is just about making it to tomorrow.

I can offer that. Not because I've mastered it, but because I'm living it.

So if you're struggling with self-care right now, if the advice you're seeing feels impossible to implement, if you're barely holding on and wondering why everyone else seems to manage better than you, please know this:

You're not alone. You're not failing. And you're doing better than you think you are.

Sometimes, just surviving the hard days is enough.

More than enough.

—

If you're navigating your own challenges with chronic illness, trauma, neurodiversity, or perimenopause and need a gentle, structured space that meets you where you are, The Sanctuary offers ongoing support without pressure or perfection. Monthly live sessions, daily prompts, and a community that understands. £25/month. You don't have to do this alone.