Re-Mothering Myself: The Journey from Dependence to Self-Care and Healing

A brief bit on learning to care for myself when I’m sick and healing old patterns of codependence.

There was a time when being sick meant completely falling apart. I’d wait in bed, miserable, hoping my partner would take care of everything — food, comfort, soothing, the whole shabang. And for a long time, he did. I depended on him so much because I didn’t know how to show up for myself. I hadn’t yet learned the art of remothering — of tending to my own needs with presence, patience, and tenderness.

But over the past couple of years, something has shifted.

A friend of mine talked to me about remothering, something I had never heard about. Since then, I've had many small awakenings that have lead me to listen inward — to my needs. I’ve learned to feed myself when I’m hungry. To rest when I’m tired. To say no when my body says no. And to ask for help only when it’s truly needed.

Recently, I was sick again. And a big shift happened: I cared for myself like I never had before.

It was a mix of the practical and the spiritual. I made myself tea (so much echinacea tea). I took a warm bath with my soaking salts. Played around with a conch shell and a didgeridoo that my partner picked up from a secondhand group, and we both played around with the sounds together — a little lightness in the middle of being under the weather. I even set myself up for a supported savasana on my yoga mat with blankets and a bolster, and allowed myself to fully receive a sound bath from my partner, a musician and sound healer. Also, I highly recommend doing this for yourself, even if you don't have a loved one who plays music, simply putting on a soothing song and creating a little nest for you to lay in can do wonders.

One night I made myself a pot of chicken noodle soup. Yes — Campbell’s. The classic. There’s a story behind that, too.

A Lesson from a Can of Soup

A while back, I was sick and had been vegetarian for about two years. I was trying to make myself a "supposedly healing" garlic cauliflower soup — something nourishing and “right.” I barely had the energy to get through it. I remember standing there in the kitchen, stirring and sweating, just holding on. When I finally sat down to eat, I lifted a spoonful to my mouth... and my body full on gagged. It was like my entire system just screamed NOPE.

I collapsed on the couch, crying, exhausted, defeated. And then I remembered the one lonely can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup shoved way back in the cabinet. My mind started spiraling — But I’m a vegetarian. I can’t eat that. That’s not acceptable. But something deeper spoke louder. Something like my inner child. And she remembered — Mom used to make that for me. That’s what we eat when we’re sick.

So I made it. And I ate it. And I almost instantly, felt better.

That was a turning point.

Since then, I’ve let go of the strict rules around food and self-care. Now, I honor a more intuitive, balanced way of living — whole, nourishing foods and the occasional nostalgic can of soup (or fries!). Healing isn’t about perfection. It’s about tending to what we actually need.

This Time Around

This time, I was sick for about four days. I don’t remember every detail — the days blurred together in that hazy way sickness does — but I remember feeling cared for. Not just by my partner, but by me.

I drank tea. I made food. I took a bath. I played with sound.

And when I needed support, I received it without shame.

By the last day, I felt a shift. I ordered some Szechuan Opera wonton soup (I had two cans of Campbell's already and needed some change) — something spicy, warming, and energizing. At first it felt like too much, but with each bite, my body responded — it felt like medicine. That night, I woke up drenched in sweat — and by morning, I felt lighter. Stronger. Like my body had finally defeated this thing.

The Bigger Healing

I’m not the person I was a few years ago. I don’t lie in bed hoping someone will rescue me from myself. I still receive care — and I’m grateful for it — but now I meet myself halfway.

I listen. I respond. I care.

This is what remothering has come to mean for me:

Being the one who notices. The one who soothes. The one who makes the soup.

It’s a practice, and I’m still learning.

But I can say this with certainty — I trust myself more now than ever.

And that’s something I never imagined I’d feel.