When I had my son two years ago, I came home with my husband and a tiny newborn to an otherwise empty house and had my first-ever panic attack. Having never struggled with severe anxiety, I was blindsided and confused. I had done everything “right,” I had meticulously researched and practiced all the self-care guidelines to have a “smooth’ birth and a “peaceful” postpartum period. Healthy eating, exercise, meditation, I did it all. So why was this happening to me?

The prenatal books and articles emphasized “prioritizing my peace” by setting boundaries with family and friends who may have stressful opinions about my pregnancy and how I was going to raise my child. “Avoid unsolicited advice and comments! Stress is bad for you and the baby!” I took this advice so seriously that toward the end of pregnancy I began to isolate. My husband and I even sent an email to our family detailing how no one could visit for the first two months of our baby’s life, and how no one other than my husband would be welcomed at the hospital during delivery. 

This separation from my family and community was a stark deviation from how I was raised. In fact, the whole concept of self care was foreign to me until I became pregnant. Being the eldest daughter of a large Hispanic immigrant family meant my “peace” wasn’t even on the priority list. I was raised to take care of others, to put family above everything else, even if sometimes inconvenient or stressful for me. From an early age, I was the family conflict manager, therapist, social events planner, and financial support. While this may sound potentially toxic to some Americans, I was fortunate to have a supportive and loving family, and I knew that everything I did for them, they would do for me. Our culture of taking care of each other, even when personally inconvenient, was beyond rewarding and left little need for self-care. 

Indeed, for most of human history, community care was our predominant form of “self care.” We lived interdependent on each other for everything from resource gathering to childcare to emotional support. In cultures throughout Latin America and Asia, community care remains the most fundamental component of self care, particularly for new mothers. The idea that surrounding ourselves with others is stressful and even detrimental to our well-being is a very new and uniquely American concept. We are a social species, and  community is so instrumental to our health that U.S. Surgeon General Vivek Murthy warned in 2023 of a loneliness epidemic in America and its negative physical and mental consequences. Yet the self-care industry is thriving— racking up a net worth of $1.8 trillion in 2024 with its skin care products, 10-step morning routines, fitness fads, and prioritization of the individual above all. The obsession with self care is even driving us to isolate in times of extreme political turmoil, when we need community the most. As an immigrant and a mother, I feel heartbroken by how immigrants are being abused in America, yet the advice I often hear is: “You can’t do anything about it so just don’t listen to the news, it’s not good for your mental health. You have to prioritize yourself.” I can’t help but wonder what the long-term consequences are to a society that suppresses our empathy and humanity in the name of self care?

I had a tough battle with postpartum panic disorder. I experienced physically debilitating panic attacks daily, couldn’t sleep longer than a couple of hours at a time, lost my appetite, and ended up in the emergency room after a particularly severe panic attack left me faint and delusional. Initially I fought the disease with the same vigor I had when I prepared for motherhood— I turned inward and researched solutions, worked with doctors, and went to therapy. My husband did everything he could, but nothing seemed to help. It was not until I was finally honest with my mother and admitted how hard things had been that things started to get better. My mom listened, held me, let me cry, commiserated on our shared experience as mothers, and moved in for a few weeks to take care of us. As I started to feel better, I began to reach out to other family and friends and they became an integral part of our support system. Once I was open about my struggle, I connected with and was able to help other new moms who faced similar issues. In short, community care healed me after self care failed me.  

Perhaps the reason I had my initial panic attack that day is because I came home to an empty house. Maybe, deep down, some ancestral part of me knew this was not how it was supposed to be. I was supposed to be arriving to a home full of family and friends who would take care of me and my baby. Perhaps the modern American definition of self care excludes the cheapest, most integral solution to anxiety and loneliness: community. Particularly in times of vulnerability, political upheaval, and hardship, maybe community care is the most needed step in our self-care routines. 

About the Author: Pia Rodriguez is a scientist, mother, PD Soros Fellow, and a Public Voices Fellow of The OpEd Project. 

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