For most of my twenties, I believed self-care was about eucalyptus candles, a curated skincare shelf, Sunday face masks, and oat milk matcha lattes that offered a sense of calm. I convinced myself these rituals were enough, that they were proof I was caring for myself. But the truth is, while I was performing peace, I wasn’t resting. I wasn’t tending to my spirit. I was a grade-A people pleaser who spent years trying to be something else.
Eventually, the truth caught up with me: I was exhausted from years of emotional overextension. I was the one who always showed up, who said yes without hesitation, believing that being the “good one” meant sacrificing myself. I’d mistaken output for love, generosity for identity. I was betraying myself, slowly, in exchange for approval I never questioned whether I needed in the first place.
The shift began after New York Fashion Week last February, during a lunch with a close friend—someone who knows me well enough to cut through the noise. I told her how drained I felt, especially from family obligations that always seemed to come with invisible expectations and unspoken rules. I’ve long been the sheep of the family—the one who didn’t follow the traditional script. I left my small hometown in Maryland, where most people stay close, settle down, and play it safe. I chased something else entirely: a life filled with creativity, queerness, and ambition. At family functions, I often feel like a target, or at the very least, a spectacle. There’s always drama circling the room, always some judgment that everyone else seems to go through with ease while I sink into discomfort.
One moment in particular still haunts me: a relative casually used the word “faggot” in conversation. I froze, then quietly stepped outside to collect myself. Before I could exhale, that same relative followed me out, placed their hands on my arms, and told me they loved and supported me. The contradiction sliced through me—how could someone wield a slur and then offer softness, as if love alone could undo the wound?
When I recounted this to my friend, she listened, then said, “There’s a difference between family and relatives.” That sentence cracked something open in me. I had always believed that saying yes was how I showed love to my family, that being endlessly available was my responsibility. But the more I gave, the less I felt seen. I was constantly rearranging my life to meet the needs of people who rarely asked how I was doing—only what I could do for them next.
The first time I said no, it felt like I was underwater. A relative called my parents to ask a favor, on my behalf, and for the first time, I declined. My father said, “That’s family, you know,” and I responded with the words my friend had given me: “There’s a difference between family and relatives.” The line went quiet. And then, surprisingly, they agreed. In that moment, I realized I was no longer willing to shape-shift into someone whose worth was measured by their usefulness. I was no longer interested in performing for people who only knew how to love me when I was convenient.
I’ve come to understand that some people don’t respect boundaries—they want access. They want the version of you who doesn’t question or pause or say no. And when you start choosing peace over performance, they don’t know how to respond. Especially when you’re a Black man raised in a culture where self-sacrifice is treated as virtue and rest is mistaken for laziness. We’re taught that grind and silence is strength, and taking a break somehow means you’re weak or selfish.
When I turned 30, something shifted. Not all at once, but in a quiet, deliberate way. I stopped living for the approval of others. I stopped saying yes when my spirit was screaming no. I stopped forcing myself into timelines, traditions, and roles that no longer fit me. I stopped justifying why I wasn’t married, had no kids, and didn’t work a traditional nine-to-five. And when I let go of those expectations, I started to breathe again. If someone doesn’t like me, it’s their loss, not mine.
Freedom and peace begins when you release the weight of other people’s opinions and choose to live in alignment with your own. It’s not always easy. It can be lonely. Sometimes it brings grief. But it’s also where healing begins and clarity lives.
Today, my self-care looks different. I still love a good candle and a moment with my skincare routine, but now those things feel like extensions of deeper healing—not a mask for what I’m not addressing. Now, self-care also means resting without explanation. It means canceling plans without spiraling. It means answering the phone only when I have the capacity, and saying “No, I can’t help with that,” without guilt.
I’ve learned that boundaries aren’t walls—they’re invitations for mutual respect. They won’t threaten the people who love you; they’ll honor them. I’ve also learned that rest isn’t just important—it’s radical. My worth isn’t tied to how productive I am or how many people I please. I don’t owe anyone a performance just to prove I belong.
These days, I’m working on living in alignment, not for applause. And while people-pleasing still tries to creep in, I remind myself daily: the only person I have to be good for is me.
I Thought Self-Care Was Just Bubble Baths-Until I Learned to Say ‘No’
