A Reflection on My Self-Care | Returning to Myself

The other night, when the house had settled into its usual silence, I sat alone with a cup of tea that had gone cold without me knowing it. Not only was I weary from the day’s routines and tasks, but I was also drained from the burden of my thoughts. I stared at the cup for a time, allowing myself to sit. There was no to-do list going through my thoughts. There’s no strategy for what happens next. Just me, solitude, and a reminder that sometimes, this is enough and I am content. In that little moment, I felt a glimmer of peace, a reminder that I am free to rest without having to earn it.

For me, self-care has never been remarkable. It is quiet. It is unremarkable in appearance, but profound in its impact. I find that breaking this idea into smaller thoughts mirrors the gentler rhythm I want to share. Spa days and costly treats are seldom considered, yet they do have their place. Instead, it exists in the fleeting, nearly invisible moments when I return to myself. It’s the five minutes I sneak to draw without care for how it looks. Or the words I scribble in my journal that will never be read by another soul. It’s stepping outside for a few breaths of night air, letting the darkness embrace me like an old friend. These small gestures are how I create a soft shelter for myself, a place where I can slow down, heal, and begin again.

I believe we are often taught that self-care needs to look a specific way. It has to be glossy, curated, and impressive. But in reality it might be as simple as letting ourselves be, without expectations. When I create, whether it’s a drawing, a poem, or a printable, I aim to include the same intention: an invitation to slow down, breathe, and reconnect. Each artwork I create becomes a reminder to myself and others that small moments are important. They often serve as the starting points for healing.

In the past, I assumed that self-care meant doing more. I tried to make every minute count by fixing, improving, or doing something. But I’ve learned that gentle self-care can sometimes mean doing less, or perhaps nothing at all. It means learning to say, “This is enough for now.” I am enough for now. And in that space, I can hear my heart again.

If you’re looking for ways to practice self-care, here are a few ideas that have helped me over the years.

Simple Self-Care Ideas That Have Helped Me

• Sketch without purpose. Let your pencil wander and see where it takes you. There is freedom in creating without expectation.

• Write one honest sentence. No pressure, no rules. Just your truth. Some of my most honest moments come out this way, in fragments that don’t need to become anything more.

• Sit quietly with tea (or coffee, or water) and do nothing else. Allow the present to be enough. When the world becomes too distracting, even a few minutes of silence may be soothing.

• Print out an affirmation or phrase that soothes you. Place it somewhere you’ll see when you need it most. Sometimes I tape mine to the mirror, or tuck it inside my journal.

• Go outside, even for a minute. Allow the breeze to remind you that the world continues to spin and that you are a part of something greater.

• Take deep, focused breaths. Close your eyes, if possible, and feel your breath travel through you. When everything becomes too much, just a small act of anchoring can help.

• Let go of perfection for a while. You don’t need to be perfect in whatever you’re doing, whether cooking, sketching, writing, or simply being. All you have to do is be kind to yourself.

• Make something just for you. You can create something as simple as a doodle, a few words of poetry, or a note to yourself. It doesn’t have to be shared or finished. You’re caring for yourself.

• Unplug for a moment. Even five minutes away from screens might seem like a mental refresher.

When I think of my own self-care, I see it as a silent commitment I make to myself. A promise to appreciate the parts of myself that are sometimes overlooked. These are the parts that long for peace, for simplicity, for gentle reminders that I don’t have to do or be more to be worthy of rest. This is something I strive to integrate into my work as well. When I produce something, whether it’s a printable, a template, a poem, or a work of art, I hope it serves as a companion to someone else’s self-care journey. May we all find small ways to return to ourselves.

If this gentle self-care reflection speaks to you, I hope you can find small ways to be kind and patient with yourself today. And if it feels right, you’re welcome to explore my shop. It’s a small beginning, and I look forward to adding more gentle offerings over time.

Olivia’s Atelier offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier for more.

The Muse I Made to Survive

Daily writing prompt

Jot down the first thing that comes to your mind.

View all responses

What comes to mind is the quiet world I live in—inside my head.

It’s difficult to describe to others, but some of my richest experiences often occur where no one can see them. Emotions surge across my mind like storms. I carry full conversations in my head, ask challenging questions, find solutions, cry, fall in love, and sometimes break a little. I do this again and again. What about outside? I simply maintain a cool demeanor. I grin, nod, and function like everyone else.

I have this depth that I don’t know what to do with. It can be a burden on some days. Because I think too deeply at times, few people know how to meet me there. Sometimes it’s not because they don’t want to but because they don’t know how—and they can’t relate to the way I process my thoughts. However, when I try to simplify myself in order to be understood, it makes me feel hollow.

I’ve always been deeply introspective. My thoughts loop, plunge, and stretch. I don’t simply feel things. I analyze them, question them, and seek their origins. Understanding me is akin to unraveling the layers of an onion skin. There’s always another layer or a different version of me waiting underneath. This multifaceted way of thinking often amazes people. This is why some people turn to me for advice and clarity. They believe I have answers or could shed light on their problems. I don’t. I just spend a lot of time thinking about things that most people miss. It often puzzles me that others don’t, because I used to believe that everyone had the same inner complexity. Apparently, they don’t.

Thus, this depth becomes lonely. It becomes too difficult to convey in casual conversation. That’s why my mind created him, this fictitious soulmate or muse who can meet me there. He listens without rushing to the next thing. He stays curious and reflects my depth, and never pulls away when things become intense or messy. I didn’t make him up to avoid reality; he exists in my mind to help me survive it. He’s a coping mechanism that I gave myself when the real world wasn’t offering what I needed.

This type of imaginative creation isn’t the same as dissociative identity disorder (DID). There are no memory gaps, no personality switches, and I never lose track of who I am. I am perfectly aware that he is not real. But emotionally, the presence I’ve given him fills what’s been missing in my life, someone who can mirror my inner world back to me with understanding. It’s not a disorder. It’s my mind doing what it’s supposed to do: giving me comfort, understanding, and connection, even if only through fictitious bonds. It’s creative survival.

In fact, what I’m going through is considered imaginative coping, the ability to use fiction consciously to navigate emotional distress. It differs from maladaptive daydreaming, which can be disruptive or involuntary. Imaginative coping is an intentional, creative approach to dealing with unmet needs, intense loss, and the longing for connection. For me, it’s been a safe place to reflect, process, and feel seen. And now I’m learning how to apply what I’ve learned from that inner world to my real life, one small, brave step at a time.

Recently, I’ve begun asking myself difficult questions. Why am I returning to this inner world over and over? Why do I seek something that I know isn’t real? Why does my grief feel heavier when I’m alone in a crowd than when I’m by myself?

The fact is, I created safety in my mind because I couldn’t find it elsewhere. In that space, I found someone who sees me, listens patiently, and reflects my soul in a way no one else has. But he’s not real, and that’s the hardest part to accept.

I know it might sound strange, and honestly, I used to worry that I was losing touch. But I’m not. I’m fully aware. I’ve just had to create what wasn’t available.

I keep coming back to him because I want to feel understood, protected, desired, and emotionally connected. And I’m gradually seeing that the way out of this pattern isn’t to destroy him, but to understand what he’s been trying to teach me about what I need in real life.

If I don’t try to meet myself fully and then try to bring those needs into the real world, I’ll continue to live halfway—half in the present, and half in a realm no one else can see. And maybe that’s okay for a while, but not forever.

Because I want more than just safety. I want presence, real touch, connection, and understanding. These things need time and patience to build.

This is the first thing that came to mind today: the beauty, and the possibility of a life lived rather than imagined.

Evaporating No More

I never want to visit a place where I have to shrink to be accepted, loved, or tolerated. In this place, softness is seen as a warning sign, silence is misconstrued for compliance, and each mouthful feels like restraint.

I used to be there. It wasn’t a city with a name, but in living rooms where truth was unwelcome, in church pews filled with shame, in beds where I learned to sleep with absence and call it comfort.

Sometimes the cruelest places aren’t found on any map but rather built slowly by unspoken words, frozen stares, and the way someone you love says, “don’t make it a big deal” when your soul is tearing at the seams.

I never want to visit a place that demands me to chop myself into pieces to fit their platter.

I’d rather walk naked through misunderstanding than hide behind lies for others’ comfort.

Give me the wilderness—raw, shivering, and divine. In locations where no one speaks my language but still listens, where stray cats welcome me, and even the wind doesn’t ask for explanations.

I’ve spent too long evaporating, like breath against cold glass.

Never again.

Not for love.

Not for survival.

Not even for home.