“Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”
Audre Lorde’s words on self-care as resistance feel especially urgent now, at a time when many organizers and community builders are burning out quietly, still carrying the myth that care is selfish. The term self-care has been commodified to the point of cliché. It is marketed as spa days, face masks, or solo vacations. But at its root, self-care is a radical act.
For those doing the work — especially those from marginalized communities such as people of color and the LGBTQ+ community — care isn’t a luxury. It’s a strategy. It’s survival. It’s resistance. Doing work in and for one’s community can be depleting. Activism often comes with immense emotional labor. In our society that is all about urgency and keeping a “grind mentality”, it’s easy to feel like you are never doing enough. Activist spaces, while pushing against oppressive systems, sometimes unknowingly replicate the very structures they aim to dismantle. Burnout isn’t a sign of weakness — it’s what happens when activism doesn’t make space for care. It’s easy to think you can rest when it’s over, but for some of us, it’s never over. So how do we sustain ourselves?
Real self-care includes:
● Setting boundaries even when it disappoints others
● Going to therapy
● Saying no to another meeting or march when your body is asking for rest
● Finding moments of joy — not to check out, but to remind yourself why you fight
In a world designed to drain us, joy becomes an act of resistance. If oppression thrives on disconnection, then pleasure becomes a way to reconnect with ourselves, each other, and the future we’re trying to build.
If the goal is liberation, we must ask: what does it feel like in our bodies, in our communities? How does it sound? How does it move?
The Telling Real Unapologetic Truth Through Healing (T.R.U.T.H.) Project (@truthprojecthtx on Instagram) is a Texas based non-profit that has hosted many community based healing events. Their mission is to “educate and mobilize LGBTQ communities of color and their allies through social arts that promote mental, emotional, and sexual health.” The past two years they have hosted The Vibe Called Rest Fest, which includes wellness activities and therapies like sound baths, reiki, yoga and more. It also utilizes various artistic disciplines and has vendors.
The idea of joy as resistance is very alive in the worlds of ballroom and drag. Born from the margins, especially among Black and Latinx trans women and queer people, ballroom culture gave those most excluded from mainstream society a place to be seen, to be celebrated, and to define beauty, family, and power on their own terms. Drag is deeply political. In a world obsessed with policing gender, drag artists exaggerate it, mock it, and throw it back in society’s face with sequins. Drag shows and balls are some of the few places where Black, trans and queer joy is allowed to take up space loudly and unapologetically. These spaces offer what traditional organizing often lacks: a place to feel good while doing the hard work.
Another current example of nightlife intersecting with activism, is the group Ravers for Palestine (@raversforpalestine on Instagram). This group is demanding that club culture acts in solidarity with the fight for a free Palestine. They advocate for ravers to boycott venues donating to Israel’s occupation of Palestinian land, such as the Boiler Room. Another collective doing similar work is the group DJs Against Apartheid (@djsagainstapartheid on Instagram), whose work reminds us that music and movement have always held political power. Their mission centers on creating space for Palestine in nightlife and reclaiming the political roots of dance music. In the words of a representative from DJ’s Against Apartheid:
“DJs Against Apartheid was founded to provide a presence for Palestine in nightlife and to reassert the oppositional politics inherent to dance music and its adjacent communities. Through our work, we seek to build up the social and material resources to maintain our collective capacity to resist—by creating spaces where supporters of Palestine can come together beyond the strictures of an often hostile mainstream society, by providing opportunities for Palestinian and pro-Palestinian musicians and DJs to earn a living, and by leveraging nightlife spaces for fundraising to materially support our comrades in Gaza.”
Their work goes beyond individual events — it’s a critique of how capitalism has reshaped club culture. DJs Against Apartheid calls attention to the way corporate interests have infiltrated nightlife, often undermining the very communities these spaces once uplifted. As they explain:
“Club culture today is increasingly under pressure from corporate interests, the same interests that are content to watch Gaza burn as long as the money keeps rolling in. We want to build alternative forms of culture that do not rely on destructive circuits of capital, which themselves are parasitical on our need for joy and rest. We know we can’t completely extricate ourselves from the web of imperialist and capitalist interests, but we can start the fight wherever it is that we happen to stand, and turn the things that give us joy into platforms for a struggle for a more just and joyous world for all.”
The work of collectives like this show that joy in the form of dance and music can be a vehicle for justice, and in fact, joy is inseparable from resistance. For marginalized communities, choosing joy — especially communal joy — is a refusal to be erased, silenced, or broken. Joy, rest, and liberation are interconnected, and caring for ourselves includes caring about others.
True self-care doesn’t mean tuning out. It means tuning in, so we can keep showing up. The line between self-care and escapism can be blurry, especially in a burnout culture that normalizes both overwork and emotional numbing. Acknowledging this gray area is important. Escapism isn’t inherently bad — sometimes, we need a break. But if it leaves us feeling more disconnected than restored, it’s worth checking in.
Ask yourself:
● Is this helping me reconnect with myself and my community?
● Am I avoiding something, or am I nourishing myself so I can return to it?
No matter who you are, where you’re from, or what community you belong to, care is political and personal. We deserve to heal and feel joy. We’re not machines for justice. We’re human beings building a better world — and that world has to include joy, healing, and moments that make life worth fighting for.