I woke to an Instagram post that read: “Self-Care Is How You Take Your Power Back.”
No. NononoNONONO. This misses the point. Not because self-care isn’t a valid way to reclaim, but because it’s such a luxury. So damn exclusionary. A privilege.
White, economically OK, cis-gendered… accidents of birth that placed me here. Doesn’t matter that I’ve worked well to earn what I have. I was way out ahead, before I even began.
Privilege.
Struggling with the word. Others have standing to say it about me, but saying it myself… it sounds so precious. Feels like a crutch, as if by acknowledging it using the accepted vernacular, I’m somehow absolving myself, and my responsibility. It reads like an apology, and a weak one at that.
I call bullshit.
What about survivors who are still in abusive situations? Who can’t escape because of age, economics, life-and-death repercussions? What about survivors of color, LGBTQ+ survivors, survivors in countries with laws that would bring harm unto them for speaking out? What about survivors who don’t have access to the technology we’re using to connect and communicate in the first place? What about survivors whose experiences and lives are layered with additional weights I have not yet learned to imagine?
How does these survivors take their power back?
The refrain “What did I do?” echoes through my story, an aggressive defense by the abuser, an insistence that he in fact didn’t do anything, that my tears and my fear and my anger were unwarranted, nothing to do with him, all my fault.
So I ask, with an open mind, an open heart: “What can I do?
I categorically rejected the version of feminism I was raised with, because the applied double standards excluded me. And until recently, I’ve been hesitant to identify myself as a feminist, for many reasons. Right now, I don’t fully understand what it means – not just for myself, but for others. And I don’t think the answer is “it can be whatever you want it to be.” Isn’t picking and choosing the definition of privilege, after all?
I’m also not willing to insult others by symbolically martyring myself. Burning my yoga mat, beating my breast, selectively identifying. That’s not the answer. That’s not solidarity. That’s not change.
I’ve started by listening.
By actively seeking and reading work by intersectional feminists in this movement, and in other cross-sections of awareness and change. I probably won’t say much on the subject for a while, because I’m still learning, and I’m in no position to educate others in any authentic way. Where it feels respectful, I may ask questions, but not at the expense of inserting myself into someone’s space, attempting to use their words as a springboard, appearing to hold myself out as an example.
So much of this isn’t about me and my experience. And if I’m going to be here, in this space, I have an obligation to learn, and to take effective, measurable action. I don’t know what that looks like yet.
What can I do? It’s time to find out.
Much love,
Jess
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