Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation. — Audre Lorde
—What lingers after this line?
One-minute reflection
Where does this idea show up in your life right now?
Reframing Care Beyond Indulgence
Audre Lorde’s line begins by challenging a common moral reflex: the tendency to treat personal care as a luxury or a guilty pleasure. By rejecting “self-indulgence,” she separates self-care from vanity, consumption, or escapism, and instead positions it as a necessary act with ethical weight. From there, the quote invites a shift in perspective. If care is framed as preservation, then rest, boundaries, and seeking support stop looking like optional rewards and start looking like basic maintenance—like sleep or nourishment. Lorde’s phrasing makes the argument plain: without sustaining the self, there is no stable ground from which to live, create, or love.
The Politics of Exhaustion
Moving from the personal to the social, Lorde implies that the pressure to neglect oneself is not evenly distributed. In many workplaces, families, and communities, certain people are expected to be endlessly available—emotionally, physically, and professionally—until depletion feels normal. Lorde’s essays and speeches repeatedly connect survival to power, especially for those navigating racism, sexism, homophobia, and illness; her oft-cited formulation in “A Burst of Light” (1988) frames self-care as “an act of political warfare.” In that context, preservation is not retreat but refusal: a refusal to be worn down by demands that treat one’s life as expendable.
Self-Preservation as a Foundation for Service
Once self-care is understood as preservation, it becomes easier to see its ripple effects. A person who is chronically depleted may still be “helping,” but their help can become brittle—tinged with resentment, numbness, or burnout. In contrast, care that is replenished tends to be steadier and more generous. Consider the quiet, ordinary example of someone who finally starts saying no to extra shifts or last-minute favors. At first it may look like reduced commitment; over time it often reveals the opposite. By protecting sleep, health, and attention, they become more reliable when it truly matters, and their relationships improve because they are present rather than merely performing duty.
Boundaries as an Act of Care
From that foundation, boundaries emerge as one of Lorde’s most practical implications. Preservation requires limits: deciding what is acceptable, what is unsafe, and what drains life rather than sustaining it. This can include stepping back from harmful dynamics, refusing exploitative labor, or making space for therapy, medication, or rest. Importantly, boundaries are not only defensive; they are clarifying. They tell others how to engage with us and tell us what we value. In this way, Lorde’s distinction between indulgence and preservation becomes a compass: if an action protects your capacity to live with integrity and health, it is not selfishness—it is stewardship of your own life.
The Body as Evidence, Not an Obstacle
Lorde’s language also insists on the reality of bodies: bodies that get sick, carry stress, and require care. This matters because cultures that glorify constant productivity often treat the body as an inconvenience to be overridden. Preservation rejects that fantasy and returns to what is measurable—fatigue, pain, anxiety, appetite, and the need for recovery. In “The Cancer Journals” (1980), Lorde writes through illness without romanticizing suffering, and that honesty strengthens the quote’s force. Self-care here is not aesthetic wellness; it is the practical work of staying alive, including the difficult parts—medical decisions, grief, and the daily discipline of listening to what the body is saying.
Choosing Practices That Sustain a Life
Finally, Lorde’s statement asks for discernment: not every pleasant act is preservation, and not every hard act is neglect. Preservation can be humble—drinking water, taking a walk, turning off the phone, eating real food, asking a friend for help, or leaving a space where you are routinely diminished. The point, in the end, is not to curate a perfect routine but to protect the conditions that make a life possible. By naming self-care as self-preservation, Lorde gives moral permission to survive—and suggests that survival, especially under strain, is not a private luxury but a serious and often courageous commitment.