The Roots of Radical Rest

You’ve probably seen this phrase on Instagram captions or colorful tote bags: “Rest is Radical.” Recently, this concept of “rest” has gone viral—a call for both physical and mental well-being and encouraging people to take time off from the grind to prioritize self-care. But while its message seems empowering, its original meaning has been diluted by commercialization and performative “wellness” culture. What was once a form of resistance against systems of oppression is now reduced to chlorophyll water and the newest Stanley water bottle. In an age of rampant burnout and the denial of liberties, reclaiming rest as a tool against oppression and understanding its historical roots, rather than reducing it to a product to be sold, is more important than ever. 

Before a modern, holistic version of rest or self-care was popularized, rest was solely a medical concept. Doctors advised patients to exercise and take care of their bodies, especially patients with mental illnesses or health complications. During the abolitionist movement, however, self-care became a form of resistance against the demands placed on Black Americans. Author of Rest is Resistance Tricia Hersey speaks about how, historically, Black bodies were “treated as machines” under enslavement and how resting was crucial to combating unimaginable violence. Harriet Tubman famously made time for napping and listening to nature during her time leading people to freedom using the Underground Railroad. During the Civil Rights Movement, taking care of one’s body was a form of resistance against a healthcare system that exploited, ignored, and actively harmed Black Americans. One of the most notable examples was the Tuskegee Syphilis study, a four-decade-long unethical experiment in which Black men were deliberately left untreated for syphilis under the guise of medical research. The same year that the study was exposed, addressing medical racism became a key component of the Ten-Point program—a political manifesto created by the Black Panther Party’s founders to demand racial and economic justice. In response to systemic oppression, the Party began to open clinics and create healthy food programs to encourage the well-being of communities. These efforts were deemed “survival programs,” since it was understood that members of the community had to care for one another for survival. 

Self-care back then was not just about individual health but the resilience of the broader collective. This view is forgotten today, since commercialization has disconnected rest from its communal purpose. Companies now market rest as products and personal indulgence—band-aid solutions that don’t address the systemic inequalities that make rest seem inaccessible in the first place. However, true rest can’t be bought. Addressing the roots of burnout requires the strength of a community and a willingness to care for one another. 

Self-care originated beyond the fight for racial equality and was also crucial to the disability and women’s rights movements by navigating prejudice in healthcare systems and society. Activist and writer Charli Clement speaks about the struggle as a chronically ill and autistic person: “As a disabled person, we often face anger or annoyance from our non-disabled peers when our needs become ‘inconvenient.’” For disabled individuals, the act of self-care goes beyond personal well-being; self care is an assertion of the right to live and thrive on one’s own terms. In this context, resting to take care of the body and mind is resistance against ableist and inaccessible systems that require disabled people to constantly push beyond their limits and conform to unattainable standards. 

Similarly, in the women’s rights movement, self-care became a tool for reclaiming autonomy. Women established clinics to address the lack of reproductive healthcare, which also promoted resting for protection of mental health as an essential part of activism. It was a tool to ease the psychological tolls of sexism and violence in the workplace or at home. The fight was not only for equality in the workplace but the ability to prioritize their health and their bodies in a culture that demands sacrifice. Today, the urgency of resting for self-care has not been erased, but it’s harder to see when framed as a luxury instead of a right. Wellness culture was something that was supposed to improve accessibility for disabled people or women who were excluded from traditional healthcare systems. But today, to improve its marketability, it upholds all kinds of standards for beauty, productivity, and even “clean” lifestyles. Taking time off to care for your health now means a neatly packaged and curated schedule, meal planning, and the correct skincare regimen. Rest needs to be productive in of itself, but the current manifestation defeats its entire purpose. Care isn’t a performance for people who can afford to play the part. It’s messy and deeply personal. It requires not conformation to standards but listening to your body to know what it needs. 

The commercialization of self-care began to gain traction in the 1980s, but the most rapid explosion of wellness culture has occurred in the last decade due to the rise of social media and influence-driven marketing. Events such as the COVID-19 pandemic have led to a surge of healthcare “solutions” from brands peddling ice rollers, eye patches, and bath bombs during times of uncertainty under the label of self-care. Instead of addressing systemic causes of stress and the unequal access to mental health services and COVID-19 care, companies convinced consumers to buy their way to relief, earning from the very anxiety they helped perpetuate.

Self-care became a $5.6 trillion market by 2022. Ironically, the new wellness culture, defined by the purchase of products and conformity to inaccessible lifestyle standards, excludes the very people who pioneered self-care—particularly disabled and Black communities. These groups that used rest as a tool to reclaim autonomy are rarely seen in the marketing, design, or target audience of wellness products. The industry centers around standards of whiteness, wealth, and able-bodied care instead of more accessible and personalized practices. This kind of wellness industry not only fails to challenge systems of oppression but also helps to maintain them, breaking apart movements with emphasis on individual care and rebranding grind culture as money to buy diet food and mass-produced items. The industry frames self-care as a personal luxury instead of a collective practice against oppressive systems. Part of the “grind culture” that is causing mass health neglect is the emphasis on hard work as the sole path to success. It doesn’t help when burnout is displayed like a badge of honor by CEOs and the wealthy, deepening the belief that overwork is the path and money and well-being is only the destination. 

Generation-Z is reportedly facing more mental health problems compared to any other generation. A study from the American Psychological Association finds that 70 percent show signs of depression, and those who are people of color have the added burden of economic and environmental disparities, especially in 2025 with the climate crisis, changing immigration policies, and rollback of human rights protections. To truly start addressing the mental health crisis and calling for change, the conversation must shift back to self-care as more than just a personal luxury but also a method of supporting communities and a tool for resistance.