flying solo

Self-Aftercare: When You’re Flying Solo

There you are, peeling yourself out of the wreckage of a scene that knocked you sideways. No arms waiting, no soft voice pulling you back to earth. Just your body humming like a live wire and your head flipping between pudding and razor blades. That’s the territory of self-aftercare—the skill of catching yourself when nobody else is there to catch you.

Don’t mistake it for a consolation prize. Solo aftercare is a weapon, a survival tactic, a kind of quiet witchcraft you learn to practice on yourself. Sure, it’s sweeter when someone shoves a glass of water into your hand or strokes your hair while calling you good. But if it’s just you, you can still land without shattering. You just have to be deliberate about it.

Start with grounding. Coming down from a scene can feel like trying to punch through re-entry without a shield—heart pounding, skin raw, thoughts darting like moths in a jar. Get yourself anchored. Press your palms to the floor, the wall, your thighs. Breathe slow. Say out loud: I’m here. I’m safe. I made it through. Sometimes that’s enough to stop the freefall.

Next—tend to your body. Are you thirsty? Starving? Wrapped up in blankets, or shaking like a stray left in the rain? Fix it. Water. Food. Heat. A sweater that feels like armor, or music that wraps around you like static comfort. If you were smart enough to stash a care kit—tea, snacks, lotion, whatever softens the edges—now’s the time to use it.

Then there’s the ambush from the mind. Self-doubt loves to storm in right after the high: Why did I do that? Was I too much? Am I broken? That chorus doesn’t deserve rent in your head. Answer it the way you’d answer a friend: You did something brave. You’re alive. You’re fucking magnificent. Say it aloud. Let the words cut through the noise, even if they taste awkward coming out.

If writing steadies you, drag out a notebook and bleed into it. What you felt. What burned. What worked. Not to critique yourself but to give shape to the chaos. Words have a way of stitching the body back together. And the version of you who stumbles into this same space next week or next year will thank you for leaving a map.

Don’t skip the body’s repair. Stretch what’s tight. Run hot water over your skin. Sink into a bath, or collapse into a couch and let yourself puddle until you stop buzzing. If loneliness creeps in, reach for someone safe. You don’t owe them the details. Sometimes a simple hey, can we talk? is enough to remind you that you’re not alone, even if you’re the one doing all the care work tonight.

The rule you can’t forget: give yourself permission. Aftercare doesn’t stop being real just because it’s self-inflicted. Your needs don’t vanish without a witness. You’re valid even in solitude. You’re allowed to need tending, even if the hands are your own.

So light the candle. Brew the tea. Wrap yourself tight in the blanket burrito and whisper to yourself what no one else is there to say. You are the one constant. You’ve always been the one who stays. And you’re damn good at carrying yourself home.