What Self-Care Looks Like When You Can’t Even Shower
If one more person tells you to take a bubble bath, you might scream. Or more realistically, blink once, sigh internally, and scroll past the glittery Instagram quote telling you to “romanticize your life.”
The truth is, a lot of what gets marketed as “self-care” doesn’t work. Especially for neurodivergent adults, trauma survivors, or highly sensitive people who are already on the edge of burnout. The self-care industrial complex is all about surface-level solutions: bath bombs, “little treats,” and $9 lattes dressed up as healing.
These things aren’t bad, they just aren’t enough. And sometimes, they’re not even possible.
This post offers a deeper, more honest take on self-care. One that actually makes sense for folks dealing with dissociation, executive dysfunction, and chronic overwhelm.
What Self-Care Isn’t
Let’s be real:
It’s not the same as “treating yourself.”
It’s not a reward for being productive.
It’s not a checklist you need to complete before you’re allowed to rest.
It’s not one-size-fits-all - especially for autistic, ADHD, or highly sensitive nervous systems. (Our nervous systems don’t always play by the rules)
Sometimes, self-care isn’t relaxing, aesthetic, or something you can post about. Sometimes, it’s setting a boundary that makes you feel sick. Sometimes, it’s giving yourself permission to not care about anything for a little while.
What Self-Care Actually Looks Like for Neurodivergent and Trauma-Aware Folks
Let’s break it down into three real, meaningful categories:
1. Somatic Self-Care
This is body-level care and it’s not easy when you’re disconnected from your body most of the time. For neurodivergent or trauma-impacted adults, even recognizing physical needs can be a challenge.
Examples of somatic self-care:
Peeing when you need to instead of waiting until it hurts.
Turning down the brightness on your screen.
Laying under a heavy blanket because your body is screaming for containment.
Letting yourself stim instead of clenching yourself into masking in stillness.
This kind of care doesn’t always look “wellness-y,” but it’s often the most transformative.
2. Relational Self-Care
Relational trauma complicates connection. But care is relational. And allowing yourself to be supported is its own form of healing.
Examples:
Asking for help before you hit crisis mode.
Telling a friend, “I don’t want advice, I just want to be heard.”
Letting yourself be loved in the messy, unshowered, overstimulated version of you.
Relational self-care means building a network of safe-enough connections. Not doing it all alone.
3. Existential Self-Care
This is where self-care moves from surviving to meaning-making. It’s often overlooked, but existential care is what reconnects you with why you’re here.
Examples:
Writing poetry no one will ever read.
Watching the same animated film for the hundredth time because it makes you feel safe.
Choosing rest as a form of resistance.
Engaging in creative rituals that bring a sense of aliveness. (Maybe lighting a candle for the version of you that didn’t survive something)
Letting yourself cry about something no one else understood as a loss.
Reclaiming joy even when the world is falling apart.
Existential care doesn’t fix anything; it reminds you that your inner life is worth tending to. Existential care helps re-anchor you when the world feels too loud or pointless.
The Bar Is on the Floor (and That’s Okay)
If brushing your teeth feels impossible today, and all you did was survive? That counts. If your version of burnout recovery is eating the same thing three times a day and watching comfort videos on loop? Still counts.
You don’t have to “do self-care right.” You just have to be honest about what’s possible.
What Gets in the Way of Self-Care?
There’s always a reason it feels hard. Often it’s not you, it’s what you’ve internalized:
Internalized ableism: the voice that says, “Other people can do this, why can’t you?”
Productivity culture: the idea that rest must be earned.
Shame: especially if you weren’t cared for well in the past, it can feel wrong to care for yourself now.
Executive dysfunction and sensory overwhelm: it’s hard to care for a body when the environment or your own brain feels hostile. “I want to care for myself but I can’t get started.”
Unprocessed trauma: “I’m not worthy of care.”
Self-care doesn’t fail because you fail. It often fails because we’re trying to apply one-size-fits-all solutions to very complex nervous systems. Naming these blocks is a form of care in itself.
A Reclaimed Vision of Self-Care
Let’s rewrite the narrative.
Self-care isn’t something you earn. It’s a right - and frankly, a necessity. It’s not always beautiful, but it is sacred. It’s a practice of remembering yourself when the world tells you to forget.
It’s not performative. It’s not curated. It’s messy, real, adaptive. And deeply needed, especially by those who were never taught how to do it.
You Don’t Need to Do This Alone
If this post speaks to your experience, you’re not the only one. And you don’t have to figure this out by yourself. I offer trauma-informed, depth-oriented therapy for neurodivergent adults navigating burnout, dissociation, and the complexity of being alive.
Learn more about therapy with me.
May the Force be with you
Leanna
Disclaimer: the information provided is for informational purposes only and is not intended as professional advice. The information does not constitute medical advice or diagnosis.
A Note on the Writing Process
I write these blog posts with the intention of offering thoughtful, compassionate reflections for neurodivergent individuals navigating life, healing, and therapy. To help with structure and flow, I sometimes use AI-assisted tools as part of my writing process. These tools support clarity and help me bring ideas to life more efficiently, but every post is based on my clinical experience, voice, and perspective.
Just like therapy, writing is a collaborative process, and I see AI as a quiet helper behind the scenes and not a replacement for human insight, depth, or care.
