I’d be the first to admit that I’m a bit of a hermit. My favorite thing to do on this earth is to lock the door, lower the blinds, and not speak to anyone for approximately three days. I have baths, I wear face masks, I watch women scream at each other on miscellaneous Bravo franchises, and mainline vitamin supplements. And then I emerge, bright-eyed and ready to face the world. It’s what I’ve always done for self-care, long before the phrase became a semi-meaningless buzz term.
I’m not the only one. For a lot of people, “self-care” is basically interchangeable with “not going out or seeing anyone.” Twenty-three-year-olds are going to bed at 8 p.m. and waking up at 4 a.m. to film ASMR morning-routine videos in their gray-toned one-bedroom apartments. Gen Z is giving up drinking, and therefore nightlife, and therefore leaving the house after dinner. People are calling having fun “dopamine menus” now—and by “fun,” they mean drinking water alone. I love staying in as much as the next person—probably more so, actually—but even I have to admit that self-care has to mean more than putting yourself on voluntary house arrest.
The other night, I stayed out dancing until 4 a.m. On the way home, I asked the Bolt driver to turn up the music—it was Seal’s “Kiss from a Rose”—and put my hand out the window to feel the city breeze (this poor, poor Bolt driver). A couple of days before, my partner and I had gone for cocktails and then invited people back to ours to play Dance Mat in the living room until our feet hurt. By the time Sunday rolled around, I was exhausted. I ordered pasta to the door and then ate it straight out of the pot like a pig with a trough. None of these things would usually be defined as self-care, except, in the week that followed, I noticed a certain lightness. An ease to my general mood. All of that staying in, and it was actually going out that made me feel good.
Obviously, I’m not suggesting that getting smashed off your face is self-care, or that you should push yourself to the brink of social burnout. I know that I become strung out if I go out too much, and I need to be alone for proper stretches of time in order to function properly. But I do think that we need to remember that self-care can mean having fun, too. And by fun, I mean proper fun. The sort of fun that makes you forget about your microbiome and sleep-app goals. This one time, I went to Disneyland and rode on the California Screamin’ ride, which reaches speeds of 55 miles per hour (it’s called the “Incredicoaster” now). While I was up there, I wasn’t thinking of anything at all. I was just screaming, and staring at the huge blue sky above. I think this sort of real, out-of-body fun can be good for you. And you can’t get that from staying in the house.
I also think there can be a propensity—and I’m saying this because it applies to me—to become sort of addicted to these very insular self-care activities, and use them as a way to avoid what’s out there. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve turned down events because I thought that it wouldn’t be good for my “routine,” or cancelled plans because I wanted to get my eight hours in. All of the aforementioned is important, of course, and it’s definitely OK. But at the same time, is there any use in engaging in all manner of wellness hacks that are meant to improve your life if you’re not really living at all?
I will probably never become the sort of person who’s out doing stuff every day and night. I’d look like a wizened old hag, and as both an only child and an introvert, my “staying in alone” time is sacred. But in 2025, I’m definitely going to be pushing fun front and center. Or, you know, at least not right to the bottom of the pile.