self-care = social justice.
- sara f. gomes
- Oct 24, 2025
- 5 min read
Updated: 5 days ago
a monk sits, wanting nothing more than to meditate, but finds himself constantly interrupted by people needing his attention.
eventually, he rows a little boat to the middle of a lake where, surely, no one will disturb his peace.
eyes closed, he melts into the pure, sweet silence.
less than two minutes in—knock–knock, knock.
even before he opens his eyes, his mind is sharpening knives to throw at the absolute fucker who dared disturb his peace in the middle of a fucking lake, for fuckssake!
but when he opens his eyes (ready to hurl those knives), he sees nothing but an empty boat bumping against his own.
the knocking boat didn't cause the monk’s anger—it revealed what was already within him.
e v e r y t h i n g outside of you is an empty boat.
furthermore,
when things are going to shit, it’s a sure bet the "adult" before you (or in the mirror) isn’t making conscious choices.
they have been triggered.
[ie, a subconscious element—the “adult” is not conscious of—has taken hold of the wheel (and is now doing whatever it takes to steer said "adult" back towards whatever wacko, totally backwards place that subconscious element feels “safety”, aka familiarity).]
if someone’s (connection/abundance/fill in the blank)-thermostat is calibrated to a chilly three degrees, mr subconscious does not let loose a sigh of relief with a sudden rise to fifteen.
(he panics because who the hell knows what’ll happen at unfamilliar-fifteen!? not him—that’s for sure.)
at three degrees, there’s no surprises.
(which is perfect for mr subconscious because—if he’s used to three degrees—he doesn’t live in a world where ‘surprises’ are made of unicorns that poop rainbows which shower you with pretty glitter; at three degrees surprises are made of mares—as in the mythical creature the word “night-mare” comes from—that shit tornadoes which slice you up with broken glass.)
the devil you know really is better than the angel you don’t—if you’re a subconscious shadow whose modus vivendi = predicting where the next gut punch (or tornado made of broken glass) is coming from.
demon, cage.
poe-tay-toe, pa-tah-tah.
now, being triggered means a button got pushed.
(or very lightly brushed against, if you’re anything like me and your mother is the one doing the ‘brushing’.)
a button, fyi, is not a character flaw built into who you are.
it is a tender—likely festering—wound.
ie it requires attention to heal into a scar that—unlike a tender wound—doesn’t turn you into an angry hell-cat (like our dear sweet beast is prone to do before he learns to control his temper [i’m trying mum, truly—i am 😪]).
e v e r y t h i n g is a mirror.
if someone treats you like shit—it’s never about you (it’s a reflection of how they treat themselves).
if someone does something you absolutely hate—it’s always about you (seeing a reflection of something going on inside you that you don't want to look at …because you’ve been taught to hate that part of you).
[don’t worry—those last three lines will turn into field notes (or micro-essays) of their own, at some point
because they are absolute game-changers
and
the list of field notes already waiting to be published (aka “tangents” shaved off field notes to keep field notes… field-notey) is already—at lesson number two (out of fifty-nine million, and change)!—pressing on the edges of the “fifty nine million” that was meant to give me ‘endless’ leg room
(triggering un-curated me {who forever chomps at the bit of this “ridiculous bite-size bullshit”} to pace in the corner muttering about “time wasted”
{and spill her nested-bracket logorrhoea where it’s not wanted, i.e. outside the spacious home we built for her to spill to her un-curated hearts' content <at bear bones>}).
relax, sara.
(hi, that's me—i'm sara.
...whereby 'me', i mean we—the 'parts' of the puzzle collectively known as sara.)
take a breath. and another. one more. good. now—
you can appease your continuity-hungry OCD-demons
(by editing all 59 million field notes {to say “out of ninety five million” when you exceed 59 million})
when it’s time to cross that bridge.
remember:
a) you’re here to give the readers you love
(who, unlike you, don’t brain-gasm on 80K word-norimaki
and can’t take in entire, un-cut maki rolls
{because they aren’t K-word demon hunters like you <and need human-sized makizushi-field notes they can actually swallow ...without choking on nested brackets>}.)
and
b) you might die a blissed-out death on the non-metaphorical makizushi someone keeps warning you is “dangerous” before you exceed 59 million.
(ie, the only “time wasted” is worry given to what might never even happen.)]
[in case you didn't catch what i just did;
the above is the kind of 'soothing', reassuring, grounding mental dialogue you need to develop for when your "un-curated" self is triggered (and starts to spill it's {fill in the blank}-rrhoea allover the place) because getting annoyed at yourself will not help anyone.]
returning to our main thread..
“yes, but what can mr monk do besides swallow—ie unhealthily suppress—his anger and pretend to be zen while the world disturbs his every meditation?” i hear you wonder.
he can set a boundary.
hang a ‘do not disturb’ sign.
kindly say “i'm busy”.
point at the sign and kindly say “i'm busy” when someone consciously ignores the sign (or simply doesn't see it) and interrupts him anyway.
[because yes—saying ‘no’ will make mr monk feel awkward as hell (until he’s done it enough times it feels normal {then enough more times that saying no feels holy})
and
holding that boundary is how he doesn’t burn the unlucky nth knocker (with frustration that his resentment has boiled into rage {because mr monk let it bubble beneath the surface for so long}).]
lesson number two (out of fifty nine million, and change):
self-care = social justice.
every boundary you assert, kindly and firmly, is one less bad-tempered you the world has to suffer.
being of service to the world starts with carrying this in your pocket:
“i do what’s best for me, so i can be the best version of me for others.”
(and here
is what that looks like.)
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