Filling Your Cup: Care for Yourself Before Caring for Others

“Remember to take care of yourself. You can’t pour from an empty cup.” ~Unknown

I have long been skeptical about the idea of self-care.

I grew up with parents who consistently put others’ needs before their own. My father grew up poor and delayed getting his degree to work and support first his family and, later, his wife and children. My mother similarly put off pursuing her education to care for us.

I remember telling my parents once, when I was about ten years old, that I was jealous of a friend who had a big swimming pool in her backyard. I loved going to her house. It felt luxurious to spend hours lounging by that pool, talking, reading, stuffing ourselves with ice cream.

My parents’ response was to tell me how privileged we were. We had more than enough, they said. We had to look at people who had less to remind ourselves to be thankful, and to then do what we could to help.

That exchange left me with a lot of guilt—the guilt that then emerges whenever I want to indulge myself.

I have trouble saying no when my friends or partner ask for help, even when helping them means rearranging my schedule, missing deadlines, and overtaxing myself. I save to enroll in a dance class or to get a massage, only to feel overwhelmed with guilt when I finally have enough to do them.

When I first met my now ex-partner, we spent hours mocking the idea of self-care. We agreed that only entitled people would use a phrase like “self-care.” We bonded over the unspoken agreement that good people are selfless, always willing to prioritize others’ needs over our own—especially when those “others” are less fortunate, less privileged.

A psychotherapist at a community mental health clinic, he has daily exposure to stories of hardship that neither of us is likely to encounter in our relatively comfortable middle-class lives: homelessness, extreme poverty, scenarios where sexual abuse is a frequent occurrence.

The idea of self-indulgence in an already privileged life fills him with guilt: why rest and read fun fiction when that spare time can be spent reading psychology books that would benefit his work? Why take a day off to celebrate a birthday when that day can be spent working?

He became another person I pushed my needs aside for. Increasingly, my schedule began to revolve around his. I stopped going to dance classes to be with him when he had time off from work. I volunteered to watch his kids when I really wanted time alone to knit or write or go to dinner with friends.

He ran his life the same way. He made time to go on dates I insisted on having when he really wanted time alone to read. He scheduled back-to-back therapy sessions when he really needed time to recharge between sessions.

Our relationship quickly ran aground. We were both resentful of each other. We both felt unreciprocated and depleted.

Then, I thought we were being generous with each other. Really, we were giving the other a drink of water when there was only a tiny drop left in each of our cups. Giving to the other left us in thirst.

No wonder we felt resentful of each other. I for one felt that, by accepting my offer of water, he abandoned me in thirst. After a relatively long period of being embedded in this pattern, I now try—with occasional failures—to do these three things:

Not give out of fear

I have been stuck in a painful cycle for a long time: I say yes to things I don’t want to do in fear of being disliked, only to find myself filled with resentment when I don’t receive the reward I want.

I resented the friend for whom I volunteered to cat-sit when she was unable to drive me to the doctor. I resented my partner for falling asleep out of exhaustion in the middle of my story after I volunteered to spend my evening watching his kids while he worked.

I was resentful because I forced myself to give when I didn’t want to, or when I felt I couldn’t afford to. In both cases, I gave because I feared that saying “no, I can’t” would make them dislike me. My yeses quickly backfired, though.

I stopped speaking to said friend and was cold to my partner. When he confronted me, I told him he was selfish: “I pushed my deadline to watch your kids for you, and you couldn’t listen to my story?” “But I didn’t ask you to,” he said, “and you shouldn’t compromise your needs to do me a favor.”

That was hard to hear, but his response jolted me into awareness.

Not being able to say no to things we don’t want to do results in pent-up anger and resentment toward people we extend help to. The inability to say no stems not from generosity, I realize, but from fear of being disliked and rejected. When driven by fear, we can’t give help joyfully or do so out of genuine affection.

Fear-driven offers of help create a relationship of obligation: we give help, but with a deep expectation that, at a future time, others would also deprive themselves to give to us. Because of this habit, I have over time come to see a willingness to endure deprivation as an utmost expression of love. When my friend or partner refuses to deprive themselves to give to me, I accuse them of not loving me enough.

I try now to attend first to my needs before giving to others. As a result, I find my narrative about love shifting. When I don’t deprive myself, I no longer expect other people to deprive themselves for me.

My growing understanding of love now is no longer a person’s ability to deprive themselves to give to me. Rather, it is their ability to give me enough space to attend to my needs. When I take time to attend to my needs without guilt, I am more able to give out of joy and genuine affection.

Set relational boundaries

I strive to honor my boundary to say no when I need to say no. I struggle, though, to find a balance between honoring my boundary and making compromises to maintain a relationship where my partner feels heard and loved. If I were too rigid and uncompromising with my boundary, I would be left with little to no time to share with my partner and friends.

So far, I have managed to find some balance by communicating my needs to other people and inviting them to do the same. Once we have our needs out on the table, we begin making reasonable compromises. What needs can I defer to accommodate others, and what can they do to accommodate mine?

I make space to communicate to set a boundary that is relational, not rigid. The nature of my boundary shifts depending on the relationship I’m in, and on the needs of the other person in that relationship.

Remind myself that self-care enables me to better care for others

Growing up, I associated self-care with apathy and indifference to others’ suffering. But I increasingly see that, if anything, self-care enables us to care for others better.

When I care for myself, I find that I extend care to share the feeling of contentedness I experience. There is no expectation of reciprocity or reward. Only delight.

Like the anticipation with which I make a pot of tea to be enjoyed with others.

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