In 2024, I thought a lot about

"I don’t want no struggles, I don’t want no fears...

Am I good enough? Am I good enough?

About time I embrace myself and my soul.

Time I feed my selfish soul."

‍

Those words from Selfish Soul by Sudan Archives are something I’ve thought about a lot since I first heard them. They’re not intended to be about caregiving, but that’s what they evoke for me: the tension between caring for a loved one and caring for my own selfish soul.

In 2019, my partner suddenly developed a chronic illness. They went from well one day, to disabled the next. And suddenly I became a carer, with no warm-up or preparation.

As the eldest daughter of an eldest daughter of an eldest daughter, I feel generational pressure to put others first. Caring was expected of, and modelled for, me by a line of selfless, uncomplaining women. But I never felt equal to their legacy. My selfish soul was always tugging at me, telling me that it wasn’t fair. And I felt so much guilt and conflict over that as a child, that I couldn’t squash the impulse down and just be good.

As I got older, that tugging was often a positive force in my life. My selfish soul warned me that I was being taken advantage of, and that I needed to stand up for myself. It taught me to sit with and examine the guilt I’d feel for taking care of my own needs. It led me out of bad relationships, pulled me out of jobs where I wasn’t appreciated, and helped me build my self-worth. And I built a life where I could be as free of that crushing sense of duty as possible. In a relationship with someone who loved my independence, no children, self-employed.

Caring is something that we just do for our loved ones. You don’t choose it. You want to do it, because of love. But there’s also pressure. Financial pressure — unless you’re wealthy, there’s no other option. And social pressure — it’s the right thing to do, the good thing to do. ‌The dialogue around caring is full of it. The way people offer encouragement and praise is coded around self-sacrifice: you’re so strong. You’re so resilient. You’re so calm. You’re so good at getting on with it. 

But the way those same people show concern and sympathy is all about self-care: take care of yourself. You’re no good to anyone if you burn out. Put on your own oxygen mask first. Who’s looking after you? (That last one  always said with a sympathetic head-cocked to the side). It’s well-intentioned, but it fills me with frustration. No one seems to recognise the impossible tension between self-sacrifice and self-care. 

I’m a better person because of caregiving. I’ve grown kinder, softer, more patient, and I’m learning to be more mindful and live more in the moment. But my selfish soul is still tugs and whispers resentment, too. Not resentment at my partner. But an impossible resentment directed at the universe and the random chance that put us in this position. 

It’s sparked by the most trivial things. Like being the only one who can empty the bins and change the sheets. And by the bigger things, too. Like not having hobbies anymore, because I have no energy and creativity left. Losing relationships, because I don’t have the capacity to maintain them anymore. And the loss of the future we hoped for.

I tried ignoring it. Squashing it and starving it. But the more I try, the more it makes its presence felt in other ways. An intense need for quiet, solitude, privacy and secrets, like I’m trying to hoard myself, and not give a single bit of it away if I don’t have to. And that made everything worse.

Finding equilibrium in caregiving requires a lot of openness. You have to be open with the person you care for about your needs and limits, rather than pretending that you don’t have them. And you have to be open with the people around you who can offer support. Not just friends and family, but support services too. But while I was trying to pretend everything was fine, that I could be a perfect selfless carer, no one could support me.

And I have to be open to listening to the whispers of my selfish soul too. As much as I hate to say it, those well-intentioned people are right with their insistence that self-sacrifice and self-care are compatible. They have no idea how hard it is, no wisdom to give on how to do it, but the idea is right.

Because to care for my partner, I have to care for the selfish core of me. I care for it by spending too much money in cafes because I love someone else bringing me coffee. I care for it by honouring the fact that I’m sad that I will always be the one to change the bed sheets. I care for it by admitting to others that it’s hard and that I’m struggling, even if that might make them feel sad. It's about choosing not to become another martyr in the line of selfless, uncomplaining female relatives. To be open and feed my selfish soul.

‍