The paradox of self-care: The self beyond the self

Two weeks ago I was speaking with an atheist about religion. She said to me that faith exists because it provides people comfort.

My instinctive reaction was to push back.

I replied by stressing Judaism’s intellectual tradition, its thousands of years of debate and philosophy, and the fact that faith and science do not necessarily have to be seen as alternatives. Those are all things I genuinely believe. For me, the strongest arguments for Judaism are not simply that faith provides comfort, but that there are deeper philosophical, historical and theological reasons that make it compelling.

Even so, I kept thinking about what she had said.

Perhaps she was wrong to reduce religion to comfort alone. But her comment raised an important question: what is it about religion that people find comforting? And perhaps more importantly, what is it providing that many people seem to be searching for today?

One of the defining features of modern Western society is its focus on the individual.

This has been one of the great achievements of the West. The recognition of human dignity, individual rights and freedom of conscience arose as a consequence of valuing the individual. These have, in my view, transformed societies in an overwhelmingly positive way.

The problem is not that we value the individual. The problem is what happens when the individual becomes disconnected from responsibility.

Over recent decades, the self-care movement has arisen: a cultural trend built around self-expression, self-love, self-improvement and personal fulfilment.

Again, much of this has had really positive consequences. The attention to self-care has resulted in people reflecting on themselves more. This has led to more people attending the gym, more people attending therapy and more people being in touch with how they feel. People are encouraged to reflect on their lives and think seriously about how they can improve.

Judaism has always valued this.

Chassidic thought places great importance on self-reflection. Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi teaches in his book, the Tanya, that a person needs a healthy sense of self-worth in order to fulfil their purpose. A person who does not recognise their own value cannot achieve what they were created to achieve.

The problem begins when improving the self moves from being a tool to achieve a purpose into becoming the purpose of life itself.

Societally speaking, if people only ask what they are entitled to receive rather than what they are responsible to contribute, and if self-reflection becomes the centre of one’s existence, it becomes detrimental to society and community alike.

There are many reasons why fewer people are getting married, having children or participating in civic institutions. Economics, changing social norms and technology all play a role.

I can’t help thinking there’s also a deeper cultural issue at work.
We have become less comfortable with things that require sacrifice: investing in something other than ourselves.

Marriage requires compromise, a form of sacrifice. Parenthood requires putting another person before yourself, a form of sacrifice. Serving a community or country requires giving something without expecting an immediate return, a form of sacrifice.

Yet it’s often those very sacrifices that give life its deepest meaning.

I remember discussing with my family what happiness actually means.

I suggested that there is a difference between happiness and pleasure. Pleasure is often immediate. It is the enjoyable experience, the temporary satisfaction, the thing that gives us a moment of enjoyment. Happiness is something deeper. It comes from having a purpose, from knowing you are needed and that your life is contributing to something beyond yourself.

Those are probably not perfect definitions. But I think there is truth in them.
The happiest people are often not those who spend the most time focusing on themselves. They are often those who are deeply committed to others: parents, spouses, community members and people who dedicate themselves to an altruistic cause.

In my view, true happiness is tied to hard work, purpose and the long term. Investing in a relationship or submitting to a higher power makes way for that deeper sense of fulfilment/happiness.

This creates a strange paradox.

We have created a culture that tells people they will find themselves by focusing more on themselves. Yet many people feel more isolated and uncertain than ever. Rates of loneliness, anxiety and depression have risen markedly in recent decades, especially among the young, while a sense of purposelessness and disconnection has become a recognised concern.

Perhaps the issue is that the self-care movement was never designed to answer every question.

Perhaps we don’t grow simply by protecting ourselves, but by giving ourselves something bigger to live for.

Lord Rabbi Jonathan Sacks often spoke about the selfie as representing something deeper than just a photograph. It represents a culture where the question increasingly becomes: “How does this relate to me?”
But a society cannot be built around the “I” alone.

The great achievement of liberal democracy was recognising that every person matters. But a successful society also requires people who understand that they matter for something.

Rights require responsibilities.

These habits of responsibility matter not only in our personal lives but in our public life as well.

Politically speaking, a country is not held together simply by people possessing the same passport. A passport is a legal document; it does not create a society.
What really creates a society is the belief that we owe something to one another.
Liberal democracy has rightly emphasised what citizens are entitled to receive. But a healthy society also requires citizens who understand that they owe something in return.

This is why responsibility matters. Throwing rubbish on the street, ignoring an elderly person standing on public transport, damaging shared spaces or treating public life as though it belongs to nobody are not just individual choices. They reflect whether someone sees themselves as part of a wider community or merely as an individual passing through it.

This is where religion offers something unique. Judaism begins with the idea that life is not ultimately about the self.

A person is commanded to make sacrifices in the form of money, time, effort and compassion. To sacrifice for their family, their community and God.

This idea is central to Chassidic thought through the concept of bittul. The word is sometimes translated as “self-nullification”, but it does not mean destroying oneself or believing one has no value.

Paradoxically, by directing some of the energy we normally invest in ourselves towards something bigger than ourselves, we don’t become smaller, we become bigger.

The Talmud teaches that every person should see the world as though it was created for them, and them alone. Judaism gives every individual enormous dignity. At the same time, it teaches humility: you are indeed incredibly valuable, but you are also part of something much greater.

Both ideas are necessary.

Someone who believes they have no value cannot contribute. Someone who believes they are the centre of everything cannot truly love. Every meaningful relationship requires moving beyond yourself.

A parent sacrifices for a child. A spouse sacrifices for their partner. A person sacrifices for their community. Love itself requires that we stop asking only what we can gain and start asking what we can give.

Modern culture often tells us that we improve by focusing on ourselves alone.
Judaism offers a different possibility: that perhaps we find and improve ourselves by looking beyond.

Whether that is through God, family, community or country, the people who often experience the deepest sense of fulfilment and happiness are those who know they are needed.

Perhaps that is why religion comforts people.

Not because it helps them escape reality, but because it gives them a purpose within reality.

Maybe real freedom is not simply the ability to do as we please, but being free from the need to make ourselves the centre of every decision.

In an age that constantly asks, “What do I want?”, Judaism asks a different question:
What are my responsibilities?