Every Sunday evening, Nora made a list. She loved lists. Lists made life look manageable.
Buy groceries. Do laundry. Call Mom. Clean kitchen. Answer emails. Walk the dog. Prepare lunches. Pay bills. Water plants. Help Sarah with her résumé. Pick up Dad’s prescription.
By Monday morning, the list had already grown. Someone always needed something and Nora was very good at being needed. She remembered birthdays. She checked on friends who were having a difficult week. She brought soup when someone was sick and stayed late when a coworker was overwhelmed. If someone asked, “Could you possibly…?” Nora usually answered before they finished the sentence.
“Of course.”
She was proud of being dependable. But somewhere along the way, dependable had quietly become exhausted. One Saturday morning, Nora woke up already tired. Not sleepy, tired. The kind that seemed to live somewhere behind her ribs.
She shuffled into the kitchen, made coffee and opened the little notebook containing her weekend list.
There were seventeen things on it. She stared at them, then she noticed something. Not one of them was for her.
Nora picked up her pen.
At the very bottom, she wrote: Take care of Nora.
She almost laughed. It sounded ridiculous. What did that even mean? Take herself where? Did she need snacks for the trip? Still, she left it there.
That afternoon, instead of immediately tackling the laundry, Nora sat outside with her coffee. At first, she felt guilty. The laundry existed. She knew it existed. Presumably, it knew she existed too. They could continue their relationship later. So she sat. The sun warmed her face. Birds argued noisily in a nearby tree. Somewhere down the street, someone was mowing a lawn.
Nothing remarkable happened.
And somehow, that was remarkable.
Nora realized she couldn’t remember the last time she had sat somewhere without simultaneously accomplishing something.
She wasn’t answering messages. She wasn’t folding anything. She wasn’t planning dinner. She wasn’t even trying to become a better version of herself, she was simply existing. And for once, existing was enough.
Over the next few weeks, Take care of Nora stayed on every list. Sometimes it meant going for a walk. Sometimes it meant cancelling plans because she genuinely needed rest. Sometimes it meant eating something nourishing instead of realizing at four in the afternoon that she’d survived on coffee and determination. Sometimes it meant turning her phone off. Sometimes it meant asking for help. And sometimes it meant sitting on the couch watching something completely ridiculous while eating popcorn. She also learned something she hadn’t expected. Self-care wasn’t always comfortable.
Sometimes self-care was saying, “I can’t do that today.”
Sometimes it was disappointing someone instead of exhausting herself.
Sometimes it was going to bed when the kitchen was still messy.
Sometimes it was admitting that she was struggling, and sometimes it was recognizing that another person’s emergency didn’t automatically have to become hers.
The strangest thing happened. Nora didn’t become selfish. She became happier. She still helped people. She still remembered birthdays. She still brought soup. But she stopped emptying herself completely and then wondering why she had nothing left.
One Sunday evening, months after she’d first written those three words, Nora sat down with her notebook.
Buy groceries. Laundry. Call Mom. Water plants.
She smiled and added one more thing.
Take care of Nora.
Then she drew a little box beside it. And immediately checked it off.
Because she finally understood something: Self-care wasn’t another task she had to earn the right to complete. It wasn’t a reward for being productive. It wasn’t something reserved for the moment when everyone else was happy, every chore was finished and nobody needed her. Taking care of herself was part of taking care of her life.
Nora closed the notebook. The laundry could wait. The emails could wait. Even the dishes could wait.
She made herself a cup of tea, wrapped herself in a blanket and sat beside the window as the evening sky slowly turned pink. For years, Nora had believed that being a good person meant always being there for everyone else.
Now she knew better. She could be there for them.
She just had to remember to be there for herself, too. ❤️
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