There are things people say to you that never leave.

Not because they were loud. Not because they were cruel.

But because they came at the worst moment—when you were holding on to your last bit of hope that maybe, just maybe, things could end gently.

You try. You reach out. You go out of your way to soften the goodbye. You think maybe this time they’ll see your effort, not just your condition.

Then they say something like,
“You only care about your depression.”

And suddenly, the air gets pulled out of the room.

You don’t even have the strength to respond.

Because that’s not just a comment—it’s a dismissal. A rewriting of the years you spent quietly suffering. The nights you didn’t sleep. The days you did your best just to function. The fact that you even reached out in the first place.

It takes one sentence to undo all of that.

You stand there, silent. Maybe furious. Maybe tired.
You leave, and nothing gets repaired.

That’s the version of the story no one tells.

Sometimes I think about this strange pressure we put on people who are struggling—to still be emotionally available, empathetic, understanding. To always give, even when they’re empty.

And if they can’t?
If they slip or disconnect or just survive?

We call them selfish.

I’ve spent so many hours wondering if I was.

Wondering if I failed to love well. If my sadness made me blind. If my silence hurt others more than I realized.

I’ve replayed those final conversations more times than I’d like to admit.

And still, even now, I don’t know the full answer.

But I know this:

I wasn’t heartless.

I was hurting.

And I did try.

What Depression Isn’t

Depression isn’t a card you play.

It’s not a shield you hide behind. It’s not an excuse, not a script, not a reason to avoid caring about others.

It’s not the absence of love.

Most days, it’s the presence of too much.

Too much weight. Too much noise in your head. Too many thoughts you can’t explain to people who think sadness is something you just shake off.

People forget that.

They think you’re being dramatic. Or lazy. Or, worse, self-centered.

They think that if you’re too tired to call, you don’t care. If you go quiet for a while, you must be angry. If you don’t show up to family gatherings, you’re avoiding them on purpose.

What they don’t see are the dozens of times you rehearsed what to say. The messages you drafted and deleted. The questions you’ve asked yourself that sound like:

“Am I a bad child?”
“Am I only ever sad around them?”
“Am I just too much to love?”

Depression is not a lack of care. It’s a body and brain that sometimes make it nearly impossible to show that care in the ways people expect.

Some days you’re just trying not to disappear.
And on those days, trying is everything.

But when you’re told that your trying wasn’t enough—or worse, that it wasn’t even seen—it cuts deeper than anything else.

Because it confirms the very fear that depression whispers to you all the time:

“You’re the problem.”

And that’s the part that’s hard to explain to people who have never felt this kind of hollow. They think it’s pride. Or moodiness. Or stubbornness.

They don’t know how often you’ve begged yourself to “be better.”

Or how many mornings you’ve forced yourself out of bed for them—because you didn’t want them to worry, or judge, or lose hope in you again.

It was never indifference.
It was exhaustion.

And honestly, you were just surviving the only way you knew how.

To Those Who’ve Been Told They Don’t Care

Maybe someone told you that your sadness made you selfish.

That your breakdowns were unfair.
That you only ever thought of yourself.

Maybe it came from someone you loved. Or still love.
Maybe it happened during a fight.
Or in a soft voice that made it worse because you couldn’t tell if it was pity or blame.

Whatever the case, it stayed with you.

You’ve probably questioned it more than once.
Maybe you even started to believe it.

Started wondering if your depression really did make you incapable of love. If your silence meant guilt. If your boundaries were actually coldness. If your need for space was abandonment.

You’ve tried so hard to explain.

But sometimes there’s no space to explain things to people who only hear pain when it’s loud—when it cries, shouts, storms out, or explodes.

They don’t recognize the quieter version of pain.

The one that’s careful.
Measured.
Trying not to break anything else because it’s already breaking inside you.

So if you’ve ever been accused of not caring—

Just because you were hurting, or tired, or healing slowly—
I need you to hear this clearly:

That accusation is not your whole story.

You were doing what you could with what you had.

You were trying, even when they didn’t see it.

You are not heartless.
You are not a burden.
And you are not wrong for needing care, too.

The Guilt You Don’t Owe

There’s a kind of guilt that clings even after you’ve apologized.

Even after you’ve said everything you could.

Even after you’ve cried in private, wondering if there’s something wrong with the way you love, or speak, or feel.

This guilt doesn’t come from wrongdoing.
It comes from being misunderstood.

From people who expected a version of you that could keep performing, keep pleasing, keep pretending everything was okay—even when it wasn’t.

So you start thinking,

“Maybe I didn’t try hard enough.”
“Maybe I should’ve said it differently.”
“Maybe my sadness did hurt them too much.”

But that kind of thinking only spirals.

Because no matter what you tell yourself, you can’t rewrite someone else’s refusal to see your pain.

You can’t fix how someone processed your illness, or your silence, or your exhaustion.
You can’t undo their conclusions.

And you shouldn’t have to carry shame for surviving.

You were not the villain for being tired.
You were not selfish for breaking down.
You were not inconsiderate for needing help, even if others needed help too.

You were human.
And being human—especially a hurting one—doesn’t make you wrong.

A Slow Kind of Hope

Some relationships never get repaired.
Some goodbyes stay sharp.
Some words never get taken back.

I used to think closure came from conversation.
From the other person finally understanding.

But sometimes healing has to happen without an apology.
Without a reunion.
Without anyone admitting they hurt you.

Sometimes healing just looks like this:

Waking up and remembering it less.

Getting through the day without shrinking into guilt.

Letting go of the version of yourself that always had to prove they were worthy of love.

I don’t know where you are in your journey.

Maybe you’ve been quiet for years.
Maybe you’re just now realizing that what they said wasn’t fair.
Maybe you’re still trying to forgive yourself for something that wasn’t even your fault.

That’s okay.

You’re allowed to still be figuring it out.

You’re allowed to move slowly.
To build peace in small ways.

You don’t have to rush toward reconciliation.
You don’t have to explain everything again.

Sometimes hope just starts with this:

Believing that even if they never understand you—
you can still understand yourself.

And that can be enough.

A viral post claims there’s “no evidence that depression is caused by chemical imbalances in the brain.” While the 2022 study cited does challenge the old serotonin theory, it does not mean depression isn’t real, that antidepressants don’t work, or that treatment is unnecessary. Mental health is complex, and reducing it to clickbait harms real people. Let’s break it down — with evidence, context, and care.

Introduction: The Viral Post and Its Impact

You’ve probably seen it by now.

A striking image of brain scans, followed by bold text:

“Study finds no evidence that depression is caused by chemical imbalances in the brain.”

It’s gone viral — shared across Facebook, Instagram, Reddit, and even TikTok. The original version credits Hashem Al-Ghaili / Science Nature Page, and it’s framed as a kind of scientific revelation. Some people react with relief. Others with anger. Many just scroll by thinking, “So… antidepressants were a lie?”

As someone who has personally taken antidepressants and experienced real milestones because of them, I find this post careless. Not because the study is invalid — we’ll get to that — but because posts like this are being spread without context, disclaimers, or nuance. That’s dangerous.

Especially in places where mental health stigma already runs deep.

Especially when we know that compliance to psychiatric treatment depends a lot on how people perceive its value.

And especially when lives are literally at stake.

Where Did the “Chemical Imbalance” Theory Come From?

Let’s rewind a bit.

The idea that depression is caused by a chemical imbalance — particularly a shortage of serotonin — started gaining traction in the 1960s and 70s. It wasn’t a single discovery. It was a combination of early drug trials, lab animal studies, and emerging neuroscience that led researchers to suspect a connection between mood and brain chemistry.

Then came the antidepressants.

Drugs like fluoxetine (Prozac) worked by increasing serotonin levels in the brain. Patients felt better. Naturally, people — and pharma companies — connected the dots: if boosting serotonin helped relieve symptoms, maybe low serotonin was the cause of depression in the first place.

The “chemical imbalance” theory was never formally proven, but it became a useful shorthand. Pharmaceutical ads in the 1990s ran with it. So did some well-meaning clinicians. It was easier to explain than the complex web of biology, psychology, and life events that actually drive mental illness.

But that oversimplification stuck.

And decades later, we’re now seeing a public correction — one that’s long overdue, but incomplete when taken at face value.

What the 2022 Study Actually Found

Here’s where the viral post pulls its core claim.

In 2022, a group of researchers led by psychiatrist Dr. Joanna Moncrieff published an umbrella review (a type of meta-analysis of meta-analyses) in the journal Molecular Psychiatry. Their goal? To evaluate all major lines of evidence behind the serotonin theory of depression.

They looked at:

• Studies on serotonin levels in blood and cerebrospinal fluid
• Serotonin receptor activity
• The serotonin transporter gene (SERT)
• Effects of artificially depleting serotonin
• Links between serotonin and stress

Their conclusion?

“There is no consistent evidence of an association between serotonin and depression, and no support for the hypothesis that depression is caused by lowered serotonin activity or concentrations.”[cm_simple_footnote id=1]

Sounds definitive, right?

But here’s the thing: this wasn’t new to most psychiatrists.

The authors themselves emphasized that they weren’t saying antidepressants don’t work or that brain chemistry isn’t involved at all — just that the serotonin hypothesis doesn’t hold up as a standalone cause of depression.

What This Means — and What It Doesn’t

So now we know: the “chemical imbalance” theory, especially the serotonin version, doesn’t hold up under scrutiny.

But here’s what it doesn’t mean:

• It doesn’t mean depression isn’t real.
• It doesn’t mean antidepressants don’t work.
• It doesn’t mean we should stop all treatment.
• It definitely doesn’t mean you’ve been “lied to” by your doctor.

What the Moncrieff study tells us is that depression can’t be reduced to one neurotransmitter. That’s not new in psychiatry — many professionals have already moved on from that model. But most people outside the field haven’t. So when a post says “no evidence of chemical imbalance,” it sounds like a mic drop, when in reality it’s more like a course correction.

Here’s the better way to put it:

“Depression is not caused solely by a serotonin deficiency. It is a complex condition with biological, psychological, and social roots. Serotonin may still be involved, but not as the whole story.”

Simple? No. Accurate? Much closer.

Why Oversimplification Is Harmful

The problem with viral science posts is they often skip the nuance.

This one, in particular, risks sending the message that chemical-based treatments are invalid — or worse, that people taking antidepressants have been tricked. That’s not just wrong. It’s harmful.

I’ve been on antidepressants before. I’ve felt the difference they made — not immediately, not magically, but meaningfully. It was part of a broader recovery plan. And seeing that progress dismissed by a social media post, years after the original study came out? It feels careless. Irresponsible. Unsafe.

When you’re struggling with your mental health, you’re already vulnerable. You don’t need your only lifelines questioned by people who haven’t read the footnotes.

Worse, this kind of oversimplified framing can:

• Encourage people to stop taking medications without medical guidance
• Reinforce stigma: “You’re not sick; you’re just weak.”
• Push people away from evidence-based care
• Make already hesitant patients more distrustful of their doctors

If we’re going to challenge old models, we need to do it with care — not clickbait.

My Personal Take — and Why This Matters

Let me be honest.

When I first saw that viral post — “no evidence of chemical imbalance” — my gut reaction wasn’t intellectual. It was emotional.

I’ve been on antidepressants. I’ve had days where I needed them just to get out of bed. Not because I was weak. Not because I believed in serotonin like a religion. But because I was surviving. Climbing back, slowly, from somewhere I didn’t think I’d return from.

And seeing that work — that healing — brushed off as if it was some outdated myth?

It stung.

That’s why I care so much about how this information is presented. Not because I disagree with the research — I actually think the Moncrieff study is important. It pushes psychiatry forward. But what worries me is how late this post went viral, how stripped of nuance it is, and how many people are seeing it without any context. It’s not just a science update. It’s a public health risk.

Mental health already lives in the shadows for so many people. We don’t need to make it harder to reach out. We don’t need more reasons to be skeptical of help.

If anything, we need more compassion, not less.

What Causes Depression, Then? A Broader Look

So if depression isn’t just a serotonin issue, what causes it?

That’s the big question — and the honest answer is: it’s complicated.

Here’s what current research suggests:

1. Biological Factors

• Genetics: Depression can run in families, suggesting a heritable risk.
• Brain structure and function: Changes in the hippocampus, prefrontal cortex, and amygdala are associated with depressive symptoms[cm_simple_footnote id=2].
• Neurotransmitters: Serotonin, yes — but also dopamine, norepinephrine, GABA, and glutamate all seem to play a role[cm_simple_footnote id=3].
• Hormonal imbalances: Cortisol (the stress hormone), thyroid dysfunction, and even inflammation have all been linked to depression.

2. Psychological Factors

• Negative thinking patterns, learned helplessness, and trauma can set the stage for depression.
• Early life adversity — such as abuse, neglect, or loss — can change how the brain responds to stress[cm_simple_footnote id=4].

3. Social and Environmental Factors

• Poverty, isolation, discrimination, chronic illness, and even global crises like the COVID-19 pandemic have all been linked to increased depression rates[cm_simple_footnote id=5].

So yes, brain chemistry is part of it — but it’s shaped by everything around and within us. To say it’s “just” about chemicals misses the point. To say it’s not about chemicals at all is equally misleading.

It’s not either/or. It’s both/and.

So… Do Antidepressants Work?

Here’s the million-peso question.

If depression isn’t caused by a simple chemical imbalance, do medications that alter brain chemistry still work?

Short answer: yes — for many people, they do.

Longer answer: it’s complicated, but hopeful.

Antidepressants like SSRIs (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors) and SNRIs (serotonin-norepinephrine reuptake inhibitors) don’t just flood the brain with chemicals. They modulate brain circuits, change the way we respond to stress, and may even promote neuroplasticity — the brain’s ability to form new connections[cm_simple_footnote id=6].

They don’t work for everyone. And they’re not always enough on their own. But research shows that:

• About 40–60% of patients respond to first-line antidepressants within 6–8 weeks[cm_simple_footnote id=7].
• Antidepressants are more effective when combined with therapy, especially cognitive-behavioral therapy (CBT).
• Their effectiveness varies depending on severity — they tend to help more in moderate to severe cases, less in mild cases[cm_simple_footnote id=8].

They’re not magic pills. But they’re tools. And for many people — myself included — they’re a turning point.

What’s more, newer antidepressants are being developed with different mechanisms: some targeting glutamate (like ketamine), others working on inflammation. This reflects a growing understanding that mental illness is not one-size-fits-all.

So no, SSRIs weren’t a scam. They were a starting point. And for millions of patients worldwide, still an important one.

Treatment Still Matters — Here’s Why

Here’s the bottom line: whether or not serotonin is the main player, depression needs to be treated.

The global burden of depression is staggering — it’s one of the leading causes of disability worldwide[cm_simple_footnote id=9]. Untreated, it can affect:

• Sleep
• Appetite
• Focus
• Work
• Relationships
• And yes, even lead to suicide

We can’t afford to let misinformation distract us from the reality of suffering — or from the tools that exist to help.

Treatment today is more flexible than ever. Options include:

• Medications, from first-line SSRIs to newer formulations
• Therapies, like CBT, ACT, EMDR, or interpersonal therapy
• Lifestyle interventions, including sleep hygiene, exercise, and nutrition
• Peer support, group therapy, or community-based mental health programs
• Emerging treatments, such as psychedelics, digital interventions, and rTMS

It’s not about one perfect cure. It’s about building a care plan that fits you.

And if antidepressants are part of that plan? That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you proactive.

The Real Risk of Posts Like This Going Viral

At first glance, it might seem harmless.

It’s just an infographic, right? A fun science fact for people to share?

But when posts like “there’s no evidence depression is caused by a chemical imbalance” go viral without context, they don’t just inform — they confuse. And confusion, when it comes to mental health, can be dangerous.

Here’s why:

• People in treatment may feel duped and stop taking their medication abruptly.
• Skeptical family members might use this to shame their loved ones.
• Online trolls will weaponize it to reinforce the old narrative: that depression is “just in your head” and doesn’t need care.
• Doctors and therapists might struggle more to explain the role of medication to already hesitant patients.

We’ve fought so hard for mental health awareness — for the language, access, and visibility people need. One post shouldn’t undo that progress. And yet, it often does.

Information spreads fast. Clarification doesn’t.

So let’s be careful about what we amplify. Let’s demand better science communication — the kind that respects both truth and the people living with it.

Call to Action

If you saw that post and felt shaken — I get it.

If you’re on antidepressants and now questioning everything — I get that too.

Here’s what I want you to know:

You’re not broken.
You’re not naïve.
You’re not wrong for needing help.

Depression is not just a chemical glitch. But neither is it just “in your head.” It’s a whole-body, whole-life condition — one that deserves care, evidence, and empathy.

So if you’re struggling, don’t let a viral post be your final word. Talk to your doctor. Revisit your care plan. Ask questions. Stay open.

And if you’re someone who shares mental health content — take time to read before you repost.

The people reading need more than headlines.

They need hope.

It gets marketed as face masks, scented candles, and spa days—which can all be great. But self-care, when taken seriously, is far less aesthetic and more about intention. It’s not just about relaxing. It’s about surviving with dignity. Sometimes, it’s choosing to wash the dishes when you’d rather collapse in bed. Other times, it’s letting the dishes sit and giving yourself a break.

So what actually counts as self-care?

And what happens when it stops being a luxury and starts being your lifeline?

Let’s walk through that.

The Physical Side—Routine Care, Not Reward

Let’s start with the body.

• Skincare, for example, isn’t just vanity. Our skin is our largest organ. Caring for it—through hydration, protection, or treatment—can boost both physical health and confidence. A 2021 review in the International Journal of Women’s Dermatology linked regular skincare routines to improved psychological wellbeing, particularly among those with chronic skin conditions.[cm_simple_footnote id=1]
• Sleep is also foundational. Lack of it impairs judgment, mood, and immune function. The CDC recommends 7–9 hours for most adults, yet nearly one-third of Americans report sleeping less than 6 hours per night.[cm_simple_footnote id=2]
• Nutrition matters just as much. Not for dieting, but for nourishment. Balanced meals, hydration, and limiting processed foods can stabilize energy and mood. A study published in Nutrients found that higher intake of fruits, vegetables, and whole grains correlates with lower depression risk.[cm_simple_footnote id=3]
• Movement, whether a walk or stretch break, plays a big role too. Exercise releases endorphins, supports heart health, and has been shown to improve anxiety and depression symptoms.[cm_simple_footnote id=4]

So yes—moisturizing your face might be self-care. But so is brushing your teeth, stretching your back, or eating a meal with actual protein.

Emotional Hygiene—The Quiet Work of Journaling and Reflection

Now let’s talk about what happens inside.

Self-care often begins when we stop numbing and start listening—to what we feel, what we need, and what’s quietly falling apart.

That’s where practices like journaling come in. You don’t need to be a writer. You just need to show up with honesty. Journaling has been shown to reduce intrusive thoughts, improve memory, and even enhance immune response.[cm_simple_footnote id=5]

Some people write affirmations. Others vent.

The goal isn’t to produce something pretty. It’s to create a space where you can be real. And in the process, gain clarity about yourself.

Meditation is another tool that’s earned its place—not just in wellness trends, but in science. Mindfulness-based stress reduction (MBSR) programs have been widely studied. One meta-analysis in JAMA Internal Medicine showed moderate improvements in anxiety, depression, and pain.[cm_simple_footnote id=6]

You don’t need incense or perfect posture. You just need to pause. Breathe. Notice.

Both practices—journaling and meditation—ask for the same thing: presence. And in a world that pulls us in every direction, that’s no small thing.

Setting Boundaries—The Self-Care That Feels Like Conflict

Sometimes, the hardest form of self-care is saying no.

Not because you don’t care. But because you do—and you can’t keep showing up for others when you’ve got nothing left.

This is where boundaries come in. They’re not walls. They’re filters. They clarify what you’re willing to take on and what you’re not.

A 2019 study in The Journal of Counseling Psychology showed that people with poor boundary-setting skills were more prone to burnout and emotional exhaustion, especially in high-empathy professions like healthcare and education.[cm_simple_footnote id=7]

You might think:

• “If I don’t do it, who will?”
• “They’ll think I’m selfish.”
• “I’m letting people down.”

But what if protecting your peace is what actually helps you show up better, long-term?

Saying “I can’t talk right now” or “I need rest” might feel awkward at first. That’s normal. But boundaries are like muscles—they grow with practice.

Try this:

• Notice what drains you.
• Say no to one small thing this week.
• Check in afterward. Did it actually go worse than you feared?

Chances are, it didn’t. And you survived.

The Inner Voice—Self-Compassion Without Excuses

Another underrated form of self-care? Not beating yourself up for struggling.

Self-compassion isn’t about letting yourself off the hook. It’s about responding to failure or pain with the same tone you’d use with someone you love.

Think of the last time you messed something up.

Did you say:

“Of course I failed. I’m so lazy. I always do this.”

Or:

“That was tough. I didn’t do my best—but I can learn from this.”

The first voice adds shame. The second builds resilience.

Dr. Kristin Neff, one of the leading researchers on self-compassion, found that people who practiced it had greater emotional wellbeing, less anxiety, and more motivation to grow.[cm_simple_footnote id=8]

It might sound cheesy, but it’s real. Self-compassion isn’t indulgent. It’s how you stay afloat when everything feels like it’s sinking.

Start small:

• Replace “I’m so stupid” with “That was a hard moment.”
• Talk to yourself like someone worth caring for.
• Forgive yourself for not being at 100%.

Most people are doing the best they can with what they’ve got. And that includes you.

A Realistic Routine—What Does Your Self-Care Actually Look Like?

Let’s piece it together.

Self-care will never look the same for everyone. But here’s a sample list of non-aesthetic self-care that actually counts:

• Brushing your teeth even when you feel depressed
• Taking 10 minutes to breathe before doomscrolling
• Saying “no” to overtime so you can eat dinner with your family
• Journaling once a week—even if it’s messy
• Drinking water before your third coffee
• Scheduling that checkup you’ve been avoiding
• Making your bed even if the rest of your life feels chaotic
• Crying. Not hiding it. Letting it pass.

These don’t always feel productive. They don’t always get you praise. But they build the foundation for a more honest, functional life.

Because self-care isn’t just about feeling good.

Sometimes, it’s just about making sure you keep going.

What I Learned from My Own Burnout

A few years ago, I burned out so badly I couldn’t remember the last time I felt rested.

I thought I was being productive. I thought skipping meals and working overtime made me strong. It didn’t.

It made me sick. I didn’t lose weight and gained much but lost joy, lost motivation. And still, I pushed.

It took a friend to say, “You’re not lazy. You’re exhausted.”

Since then, I’ve had to relearn what care looks like—especially the kind you give to yourself. I had to stop seeing rest as weakness. And I had to stop measuring my worth by how much I accomplished.

Some days, I still get it wrong.

But now I pause more often. I check in. I write. I stretch. I let myself cry without calling it drama.

And it’s helping.

If You’re Struggling, You’re Not Failing

If you’re here reading this because you feel overwhelmed—you’re not alone.

Self-care isn’t a checklist you master.

It’s a relationship with yourself you tend to, over and over. With patience. With imperfection. With some missed steps.

Start where you are.

Breathe.

Pick one small thing. One gentle act of kindness to yourself.

And build from there.

The Myth of “Deserving” Rest

One of the most dangerous beliefs we carry is this:

“I’ll rest when I’ve earned it.”

It sounds noble. Responsible. Maybe even humble. But it quietly trains you to see rest as a reward, not a right.

That’s not self-care. That’s conditional survival.

Your body doesn’t ask if you’ve finished your to-do list before it needs sleep. Your mind doesn’t wait for permission to crash.

Rest is not a luxury. It’s a need.

In a 2019 study by the American Psychological Association, over 75% of participants reported health problems from chronic stress, including fatigue, sleep disturbance, and headaches[cm_simple_footnote id=9]. Many of them still said they felt guilty resting.

This mindset is especially common in high-achieving or caregiving cultures—where being tired becomes a badge of honor. But burnout is not a measure of worth.

What if you didn’t need to “deserve” care?

What if you simply needed it, and that was enough?

Imagine treating your own exhaustion not as something to fix—but as something to listen to.

Digital Boundaries Are Real Boundaries

There’s a reason your brain feels fried after a few hours of scrolling.

Social media, emails, messaging apps—they’re all designed to keep your attention, not to protect your peace.

We talk about boundaries with people. But we rarely talk about boundaries with our screens.

Try this:

• Turn off non-urgent notifications
• Set a “cutoff” time for checking messages
• Move distracting apps off your home screen
• Designate screen-free zones (e.g., bedroom, dining table)

One small study by the University of Pennsylvania found that limiting social media use to 30 minutes per day significantly reduced symptoms of depression and loneliness in young adults[cm_simple_footnote id=11].

You don’t need to go offline forever. Just reclaim small spaces in your day that aren’t tied to someone else’s dopamine design.

Even 20 minutes of disconnection a day can help you reset.

Self-Care for Caregivers (The Ones Who Always Give)

If you’re caring for someone else—kids, elderly parents, patients—you know how heavy invisible labor can be.

And chances are, you’re not giving yourself the same care you give others.

Caregivers often feel last in line. But self-care isn’t selfish. It’s how you stay sustainable.

In a survey by the Family Caregiver Alliance, 40–70% of family caregivers showed clinically significant symptoms of depression[cm_simple_footnote id=11].

That’s not small. That’s a crisis.

Some ways to help:

• Ask for help, even if it feels awkward
• Schedule “off” time each week—even short breaks matter
• Talk to someone (support group, counselor, friend)
• Recognize your emotional labor as valid, even if unpaid

You’re not being dramatic.

You’re human.

And if you collapse, who will take care of you?

Build a Realistic Weekly Self-Care Plan

Want to make self-care stick?

Treat it like a rhythm, not a rescue plan.

Here’s a sample template you can personalize:

Daily (5–20 min):

• Stretch or move your body
• Do one act of grooming (even small)
• Eat one intentional, not rushed, meal
• Journal 3 lines about how you feel

Weekly (30–60 min):

• Block one hour of solitude
• Turn off phone for 1–2 hours
• Watch or read something you enjoy guilt-free
• Reflect on one thing that gave you joy or stress

Monthly (90+ min):

• Declutter a space that’s been bothering you
• Revisit your boundaries: What’s working? What’s not?
• Schedule a health appointment, even basic (dental, eye, GP)

Don’t wait until you crash to start caring.

Start before the unraveling.

Self-care isn’t a grand gesture. It’s a steady beat.

My interest in Roman Catholic theology started during my years in a public elementary school where volunteers teach catechism classes. I attended all lectures and even took exams even though I initially informed catechists that I was not a Roman Catholic and that my dad was a Protestant pastor. They would tell me it was okay to stay at the canteen during these classes, but I would always choose to stay and hear about Bible stories, the lives of saints, and the fundamental doctrines they taught.

I would always marvel at the similarities and differences in our doctrines, especially the divisive belief in purgatory. But I was more fascinated with the limbo concept, which, as championed by my numerous catechism teachers, is the place where unbaptized infants who die are waiting for their fate in eternity.

Searching for more information, I ran across a commentary that showed two limbos: the limbus patrum or limbo of the patriarchs, where the faithful of the Old Testament waited for Christ’s redemption, and the limbus infantium, which was for those unbaptized children.

Around high school, a (secular) teacher cheerfully announced how Pope Benedict XVI “opened up” limbo and declared it as no longer existing, implying that all unbaptized babies for all time are now given salvation. I was surprised to find out later that the limbus infantium was not a doctrine of the Roman Catholic Church and that the Pope only reiterated its historic stand.

In college, limbo became a nuanced definition of what my life had become. Day in and day out, different things challenged me, making me more attached to the concept of limbo.

When I entered our campus paper, “in limbo” was a clichéd phrase to define any uncertainty attributed to a plan or a program. As per definition, limbo is “an uncertain period of awaiting a decision or resolution; an intermediate state or condition.”

These past few months, I realized some things in my life, and I discovered how I am still living like I am, or better yet, we are in limbo. Is limbo associated with depression, darkness, anxiety, and the like? I do think so, as unbaptized babies are often considered to be yearning for salvation. Does being in limbo mean that no one loves you? Not necessarily, as unbaptized babies may also have parents or relatives who care for and love them.

Every day, I wake up in limbo, not knowing if we will still have money for the rest of the week. I am unsure if our supplies will last and if I will still have some work to do for my living. This is what the pandemic made me.

Every day, I wake up in limbo, not knowing if my medicines will work, not sure if I will still enjoy the rest of the day, and not sure if I will get another shot at a healthy life. This is what my body made me.

Every day, I wake up in limbo, not knowing all the basic stuff in medical school; not sure if I can still make it when I get back or if I will still have the courage to go on. This is what my failures made me.

I thought about this sense of uncertainty that differs from limbo because I can call on others for help. I have my wife. I have my friends. I have some others to help. But this does not diminish the fact: I’m still in limbo.

Here’s to wishing for better days and heaven to replace this limbo soon.

As always, cease not.