Self-care: The aesthetic we bought into

Last weekend, I put on a facemask and I felt really proud of myself. I thought, I have finally done it. I am taking care of myself! But this is strange, isn’t it? I questioned where this feeling came from. Why did I feel proud of using a product? And that’s how this story was born.

That quiet moment of self-congratulation led me down a deeper rabbit hole, one where the lines between comfort and conditioning began to blur. When did self-care start to feel like a checklist? Who decided that putting on a facemask equals self-care?

Somewhere along the way, self-care became tangled with how we look rather than how we feel. The idea of 'taking care' shifted from emotional or mental check-ins to glowing skin and perfectly styled hair. A good day is now measured by how dewy your face looks in natural light, not by whether you felt calm or rested. This aestheticisation of self-care has made it performative — something to be seen, posted, and admired — rather than lived and felt. 

However, before we unpack this shift, it’s important to remember that self-care began as a tool for survival, not just self-soothing. Its roots are political, shaped by resistance and resilience, long before marketing turned it into a lifestyle trend.

Once upon a time, self-care was radical. Born out of burnout, it asked us to slow down in a world that never does. For women, especially women of colour, self-care was resistance. A chance to reclaim rest, boundaries, time, and joy. 

Self-care’s meaning isn’t obvious, apparently

The concept of self-care dates back to ancient times, especially in medical traditions. Hippocrates, the father of medicine, spoke about caring for the self through hygiene, diet, and exercise.

The term took on a much deeper and more powerful meaning in Black feminist and activist communities, particularly in the United States. Audre Lorde, poet and civil rights activist, famously wrote in 1988: “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”

This was a turning point. For marginalised communities such as Black women, queer people, and those resisting systemic oppression, self-care became a radical act. It meant protecting your mental and physical health in a society that was actively trying to diminish it.

But the modern term ‘self-care’ as we understand it today began to take shape in the mid-20th century. As it gained traction, especially through social media and influencer marketing, it began to lose its radical roots. The term became synonymous with bubble baths, candles, and skincare routines. Less about survival, more about spa days.

Two-two meanings 

According to the WHO, self-care actions are habits, practices, and lifestyle choices — things we can do to look after ourselves and lead a healthier life. Brands, however, have shaped it differently.

The divergence in how self-care is viewed by doctors versus brands stems from fundamentally different goals. One is rooted in health, the other in profit. In medical and psychological contexts, self-care is a tool for long-term resilience, prevention, and recovery. It’s about sustainable habits that improve mental and physical well-being.

In contrast, brands have reinterpreted self-care through the lens of consumerism. It has been reframed as something you can buy, aestheticise, and post online. This shift is no accident. It’s a strategic response to the emotional exhaustion of modern life, where wellness has become a lucrative industry. In a world where few truly find time for themselves, even rest becomes a rare commodity. 

We’ve been sold the idea that rest must be aesthetic. That healing has to look like a 12-step routine. That you need the right bath bomb to disconnect. That recovery is something you can buy, packaged in monthly drops, curated boxes, and influencer codes.

And maybe some of it does help. A good facial oil on a bad day is a small kind of magic. A new journal can be a soft place to land. But when did taking care become treating ourselves, and when did treating ourselves become just another word for spending?

The problem isn’t candles, or skincare, or splurging once in a while. The problem is when we begin to associate self-worth with what we can afford to do for ourselves. When rest becomes a luxury. When healing becomes a haul.

True self-care is often boring. It’s cancelling plans. Saying no. Going to therapy. Getting enough sleep. Drinking water even when you don’t feel cute doing it. It’s messy and private and often doesn’t fit inside a flat lay.

Now, when care is reduced to surface-level rituals, it risks ignoring what lies beneath the surface: burnout, anxiety, loneliness. Looking good isn't the same as being well, but in the self-care economy, the two are increasingly sold as one.

Brands that get it

And yet, there are a few campaigns that remind us what self-care can actually look like when brands get it right. Dove’s Self-Esteem Project, for instance, wasn’t about buying body lotion. It was about helping girls build body confidence and challenge appearance-based pressures.

Maybelline’s Brave Together campaign stepped outside the beauty aisle to talk about anxiety and therapy. It offered practical mental health resources. IKEA’s Balance Starts at Home reimagined self-care not as an indulgence, but as the design of your everyday life — sleep, space, calm, not sparkle. And during the pandemic, Headspace offered free meditations for anyone struggling. It recognised that clarity isn’t a product, it’s a process.

With this, brands treated self-care as a basic need, not a lifestyle, aspirational upgrade. 

Sellers gonna sell

At the same time, let’s be fair — marketing’s job is to sell. Why wouldn’t a skincare brand sell face masks? That’s literally the business. 

But the trouble begins when the language of healing is co-opted to push products of comfort. When brands begin to position a moisturiser as a replacement for self-healing, or a bubble bath as a revolutionary act, it starts to feel disingenuous. Imagine if a pizza brand ran a campaign saying, “Order now — end world hunger.” You’d raise an eyebrow, maybe even laugh. While pizza can feed someone, it won’t solve systemic food insecurity. It’s an overreach. A mismatch of intent and impact.

That’s what happens when brands conflate luxury with liberation.

So yes, sell the mask. But don’t package it as a revolution. 

There’s a difference between saying, “Here’s something comforting,” and “Here’s something that will heal you.” The former is honest. The latter borrows from the language of pain to sell a solution that never asked for that weight.

And when we forget the origins of self-care, we risk turning something deeply personal and deeply political into a punchline for profit.