In today’s hyperconnected, fast-paced world, self-care has evolved into a way of life rather than just a trendy term. It was once a highly focused and personal practice that has since grown into a billion-dollar industry. If you look through any social media feed, you’ll probably see influencers using the hashtag #SelfCare to promote face masks, green juices, or guided journals. Although there is no denying that mental health and personal well-being are receiving more attention, there are significant concerns about the way wellness has being marketed. Is self-care now really about taking care of oneself, or is it just another marketing gimmick? Pragmatic were the roots of self-care. For activists, especially in marginalized communities, self-care was a revolutionary act of survival and resistance to the system. In quieter, more private contexts, it was merely listening to one’s own needs:sleeping, reaching out for help, setting boundaries, and carving out spaces of peace amidst chaos. No audience; not an aesthetic; certainly not a shopping cart.
Today, however, self-care is increasingly framed as a series of rituals and shopping. The wellness industry offers a steady stream of products—lux candles, expensive supplements, color-coded calendars, and skincare routines with more steps than a choreography video. These are not necessarily evil, but they are symptomatic of something larger: the commercialization of wellness from a personal journey to a lifestyle. Wellness has been packaged, polished, and marketed back to us in a package that’s more appearance than reality.
This commodification raises a further concern: it ties self-worth to consumption. If you’re not sipping herbal tea out of a trendy mug or journaling with a gold-embossed pen, are you really being kind to yourself? The expectation to fit the branded model of self-care can make one feel inadequate, even anxious—ironically exactly what self-care is trying to fix. It also fuels the illusion that peace, productivity, and happiness are consumer goods you can purchase, rather than the children of much grubbier, less glamorous sources. Also missing from this consumerist notion of wellness is access. Not everyone can afford therapy sessions, gym membership, or “superfood” smoothies. Wellness commodity creates exclusion for those who cannot keep up with its price, creating a sense of inadequacy among the already disadvantaged. Instead of making individuals stronger, today’s discourse on self-care can further reinforce class divisions and feelings of inadequacy.
There is also the question of the performative aspect of contemporary self-care. Healing is being constructed as social media content. People have to prove themselves on the internet, posing their relaxation in slick-looking pictures or videos. In doing so, the line between genuine self-reflection and public performance is blurred. Rest is something that needs to be demonstrated, not felt. The pressure to always be “working on yourself” in front of others can actually create more stress and burnout—the very condition self-care is trying to prevent.
Despite all these issues, the basic premise of self-care is valid and necessary. But to reclaim its actual meaning, we must decouple it from capitalism and trendism. True self-care is often low-key, unflashy, and deeply intimate. It may be turning off your phone, having hard talks, cooking nutritious food, or granting yourself the permission to do absolutely nothing. It needn’t be shared, bought, or marketed.
At its core, the wellness trap is to mix up consumption with care. While wellness continues to thrive, remember that healing is not a trend—it’s a reflective, long-term process. By turning our attention away from the idea of self-care as something to buy or do, we can return to its real essence: a genuine, sometimes brutal, always necessary practice of self-forgiveness.
Despite all of these obstacles, the underlying premise of self-care is solid and necessary. But to reclaim its true meaning, we must deplug it from capitalism and trend cycles. True self-care is typically quiet, unglamorous, and deeply personal. It might look like turning off your phone, having hard conversations, eating nourishing food, or giving yourself permission to do absolutely nothing. It doesn’t need to be posted, bought, or labeled. Indeed!
In order to change the story around self-care, we also need to confront the psychological and cultural dynamics that have so easily commodified wellness in the first place. In a culture that romanticizes burnout, rest is revolutionary not only politically but psychologically. Humans want structure and control in a chaotic world—so it’s no wonder that incremental self-care practices, mood logs, and color-coded calendars are appealing. The problem isn’t that humans want routine, but that these routines are sold as one-size-fits-all solutions. Actual wellness needs to be personalized, not prescribed.
In addition, there is a need increasingly to distinguish between therapeutic self-care and coping-based consumerism. People are attracted to wellness products because they provide relief, not necessarily because they are better for health. A scented candle can relieve anxiety in the moment, but it does not treat the reasons for that anxiety. This is not to embarrass these decisions—everyone deals in their own manner—but we need to be able to recognize when wellness culture is assisting us in healing and when it is merely assisting us escape.
This becomes particularly significant in educational and work environments, where students and employees are frequently encouraged to engage in “self-care” rather than being provided systemic support. Telling someone to “just take a mental health day” while still imposing unrealistic deadlines, bad work-life balance, or exorbitant tuition rates is performative. It displaces responsibility from institutions on individuals and reinforces that struggling is an individual failing, rather than a structural issue. In this way, the wellness trap is not only commercial—it’s institutional. Actual care, particularly in schooling and workplace contexts, is about reform, not rhetoric.
We must also discuss masculinity and wellness. While self-care is feminized, emotional and physical well-being are essential to all. Men, in specific, are typically left out of wellness stories or only addressed through hyper-masculine contexts such as fitness and productivity. A more expansive culture of self-care would decouple gender expectations and enable emotional literacy to spread across all identities. Challenging boys and men to pursue thoughtful, non-performative self-care—going from therapy to journaling to building community—could have widespread cultural payoff.
Most importantly, we need to create language and practices of collective care, rather than individual care. Not everything can be healed alone. Self-care, sometimes, is giving yourself permission to seek assistance, rely on a friend, or cultivate relationships. A hyper-individualized wellness message can alienate individuals, leading them to believe that healing should always be isolated. Truly, collective rest, mutual aid, and interdependence are strong, albeit commonly neglected, factors in well-being.
In order to go forward, the task is not to discard wellness, but to reclaim it—decentralizing it from capitalism and recentering it on humanity. Wellness that is based on compassion, community, and consciousness will always outlast trends. The task is not to rid self-care of joy, beauty, or indulgence, but to discern when they are working for us, and when we are merely working for the market.
At its core, the trap of wellness is mixing up consumption with care. While wellness remains in full bloom, let us not lose sight of the fact that healing isn’t a style—it’s a reflective, life-long process. By moving the focus away from the idea that self-care is something to accomplish or acquire, we can regain its original status: an unapologetic, sometimes gross, always vital practice of forgiving ourselves.
