by W. L.
Self-care used to mean taking a nap or drinking water. Now it’s a billion-dollar industry selling candles that smell like emotional stability and bath bombs named after personality disorders. Society has turned relaxation into a competitive sport.
People now stress about not relaxing correctly.
“Am I meditating wrong?”
“Is my mindfulness mindful enough?”
“Should my gratitude journal have better handwriting?”
The message is clear: if you’re burned out, it’s your fault for not buying the right lavender-infused, crystal-charged moon lotion.
Meanwhile, the real causes of stress, overwork, inequality, burnout culture remain untouched, because fixing those would require effort, and effort is not relaxing.
So instead, we buy another candle and hope enlightenment is included.
And then came the “Get Ready With Me” reels, the final boss of performative calm.
Somewhere along the way, getting ready stopped being a private, mildly chaotic ritual and became a cinematic experience requiring ring lights, soft music, and a countertop full of products that cost more than rent.
Every GRWM reel starts the same way:
A perfectly lit bathroom.
A robe that looks like it was woven by angels.
A narrator whispering, “Just a little self-care routine,” while holding a serum that costs the GDP of a small village.
They layer their skincare like priests anointing relics, each serum a whispered spell.
Their hair is brushed with the reverence of a ritual meant to summon something, clarity, beauty, a softer version of themselves.
They sip iced coffee as though it’s a sacred elixir, a potion brewed to keep the world from cracking open.
Their voices float in that gentle, hypnotic tone, the kind used by people who have never wrestled with a headphone cord or the chaos of a real morning.
Meanwhile, the rest of us stumble through our dawns like half-formed creatures, tripping over yesterday’s laundry, resurrecting a moisturizer from a forgotten era, hoping no one notices the quiet storm behind our eyes.
But the GRWM oracle has spoken:
Your morning must shimmer.
Your routine must glow.
Your existence must be curated, consecrated, and accompanied by three affiliate links.
Because in this strange new temple of self-care, it’s not enough to get ready.
You must perform readiness.
You must worship at the altar of aesthetics.
You must pretend the ritual works, even when the mirror tells a different story.
Art by Willow Hills, “The Society“
About the Author
W.L writes bold essays fueled by matcha lattes and the belief that the universe is one giant inside joke.