I Lit the Incense and Didn’t Eat for Three Days

When self care is self harm

I lit the incense and didn’t eat for three days. Not for health. Not for enlightenment. Just to see what kind of girl I could become if I emptied out everything soft inside me. If I could burn away the ache, or at least give it a prettier shape.

Lavender smoke. Lemon water. An unmade bed and the screen dimmed to black. I told myself it was a cleanse, a ritual, a sacred reset. But the truth was simpler, more violent. I wanted to disappear, but tastefully. I wanted the performance of healing, the choreography of a girl who has overcome something without ever asking for help.

I took five baths a day. I steeped in scalding water until I was dizzy, raw, peeled. I liked the sensation of emerging pink and aching, as though I had done something—accomplished something—by surviving the heat. I wore silk robes on a body going hollow. I smeared rose balm on cracked lips and called it recovery. It wasn’t.

My apartment was a self-care altar. Eucalyptus in the shower. Affirmations taped to the mirror. “You are healing.” “You are safe now.” I hadn’t replied to a message in days. I was alone. I told myself it was intentional. That solitude was strength. But I wasn’t meditating. I was dissociating.

Gentleness became its own kind of cruelty. I called it flow, rest, intuitive living. But my intuition had the voice of a starving girl. My body wanted to sleep, to disappear, to curl in on itself like a dying thing and call it peace. I skipped meals and called it a reset. I ignored calls and called it boundaries. I shut down every plan and told myself I was finally prioritizing myself.

When people say "listen to your body," I wonder if they’ve ever had a body like mine. Mine lies. Mine says don’t eat. Don’t speak. Don’t try. Mine says you are only lovable when you are fading, fragrant, restrained.

I used to think I was taking care of myself. But really, I was rehearsing. Practicing the role of the Good Sick Girl. The one who doesn’t scream, doesn’t crave, doesn’t demand. The kind of girl who declines, politely. Who suffers in cashmere and candlelight. Who floats through her own ruin with a jade roller and a playlist titled “soft.”

I told myself I was healing. But I was just hiding. And the hiding looked good. It smelled like frankincense and lavender. It got likes.

The truth is, self-care isn’t always care. Sometimes it’s costume. Sometimes it’s self-harm in prettier packaging. Sometimes it's a brand of numbness sold in pastel tones, with a discount code and a script: light the candle, run the bath, take the photo, fade away.

And no one questions it. Because you look fine. Because you’re glowing. Because your skin is dewy and your fridge is empty and you posted that you're "taking time to come home to yourself."

This is what capitalism does best: it sells us our own decay. It packages our coping mechanisms into products, our mental health into hashtags. Self-care becomes a transaction. A subscription. A curated shelf of serums that promise to erase fatigue, sorrow, age. We are taught that wellness is something you can buy, and suffering is dignified only if it’s beautiful. Aestheticized. Profitable.

The wellness industry thrives on our exhaustion. It doesn’t want us to get better. It wants us to stay just broken enough to keep consuming. To keep performing the illusion of peace, while rotting quietly underneath. We trade food for crystals. Connection for curated content. Instead of being held, we hold mugs. Instead of therapy, we shop.

But I wasn’t home. I was starving in a sanctuary of curated stillness. I was vanishing under the name of wellness. And no one noticed, because I made it look beautiful.

I still light the incense. But I eat now. I eat with trembling hands and a body that doesn’t always want to stay. I eat and try to believe that care can be noisy, messy, imperfect. That healing might be ugly. That I might be allowed to take up space in a way that doesn't look good online.

I eat and I remind myself: there is no prize for suffering silently. There is no holiness in disappearance.

Not all rituals are sacred. Not all softness is kind. Not all care is care.

Sometimes, self-care is just a prettier way to bleed.