A.S. Thorne

The short answer?
Writing. Plants. The people (and creatures) I love.

The longer answer is softer, quieter. And maybe a little messy. Because for a long time, I didn’t really know what self-care was. I thought it was something people did in bathtubs, with candles and soft music and time I didn’t have. I thought it was indulgent. Optional. A luxury for people who hadn’t learned how to live in survival mode.

But my profession, education and my own healing have taught me different.

Now, self-care looks like writing—not always because I want to, but because I need to. Because something happens when I put pain into prose. When I make space for the parts of myself I used to ignore. Some days it’s a novel. Other days, it’s a single sentence that says, “You made it.” And that’s enough.

Self-care is my husband, who knows when to let me spiral and when to pull me out.
It’s my fur babies, who never ask for more than presence and treats, but give comfort like it’s their calling.
It’s my plants, too—growing wild in my yard or lined up in sunlit windows. They remind me that nurturing something can be a healing experience. That growth can happen slowly. That survival is sometimes just staying rooted.

There’s a small pollinator garden in my yard that’s become my haven. A few raised beds where vegetables grow half-wild, and bees drift lazily through the wildflowers. I lose time there in the best way. Dirt under my nails. Sun on my face. A kind of quiet I can breathe in.

Sometimes, self-care is choosing to rest.
Sometimes, it’s letting joy be simple.
Sometimes, it’s not writing and just letting myself be.

Whatever it looks like today—it counts.
And if you needed permission to treat your own care like something sacred, let this be it.

You’re worth tending to.
You always have been.

Self-care isn’t selfish. It’s necessary for survival.

—A.S. Thorne