In the last few months, more than any other time, many of us have learned the value of self-care. For some, it’s a long pier, a collapsible chair and a lake to fish in. For others, it’s solitude and a bubble bath. Others look forward to bingeing Bridgerton and brewing a pot of tea. But no matter what our personal pursuits of happiness are, it becomes harder to practice any type of self-care when, no matter where you happen to be outside your home, there’s a target on your back for no other reason than attempting to exist while Black.

It isn’t as if from the onset of the pandemic we haven’t all experienced untested waters and extra pressures. All of us have heard the same advice from professionals about dealing with our fragile statuses: Unplug, nurture your relationships, set boundaries. What can’t be mitigated and controlled though, are the always toxic, often-fatal consequences of racism, passed along from one generation to the next, creating fissures and fault lines for African Americans, Asians, Latinos and other groups of color.

With vaccines more available, jobs reopening and other activities resuming to pre-COVID levels, easier times seem near — until we hear the latest updates from the Derek Chauvin trial, watching his unbothered expression as he takes notes while experts point out his cruel and unnecessary conduct that cost George Floyd his life.

And on April 11, just miles away from the courthouse where Chauvin is being tried, another unarmed young black man, Daunte Wright, was shot and killed by another white Minnesota officer, Kim Potter. Despite being a trainer with decades of experience, Potter says she accidentally used her firearm instead of a Taser in attempting to detain Wright. Time and again, African Americans are subjected to the cognitive dissonance of repeatedly witnessing white officers detaining white mass shooters for arrest and trial, while unarmed Black people are killed in custody for minor offenses that others receive tickets for, and we hear that race is a non-factor and simply a redundant, unlucky coincidence. Again.

Recently, in one of my online self-care groups, I encountered a diagram titled “The Self-Care Iceberg.” Deceptively simple, the illustration of an iceberg is divided into two parts: the top half shows “What we think self-care looks like” — spa days, exercise, massages — and the bottom half shows “What self-care really looks like behind the scenes” — like meditation and proper rest. I saved the illustration, and for my continued self-care, I’ve started to incorporate many of those concepts, including elements that could uniquely address the concerns that people in marginalized groups constantly endure:

1. Set limits. 

I watch the morning news and ABC’s David Muir, then I tune it all out. I am all too aware of the risks posed to myself and those I love for existing while Black, and constantly focusing on them solves nothing. I mitigate what I can, pray about the rest and live my life.

2. Stand in the truth. 

There’s an urban term for gaslighting: “playing in my/his/her face.” 2020 was not just the year the pandemic exploded in the U.S.; it was also the year that fueled a global reckoning for those who insist race no longer matters and that the status quo is acceptable. We will not be talked out of obvious injustices or tolerate avoidance of white privilege and critical racial discrepancies to make others more comfortable in their states of denial. It simultaneously insults our intelligence and impedes the progress of all.

3. Learn from triggers. 

Feel the emotions, then get in motion. In 2014, when a 28-year-old white officer in Ferguson, Mo., was acquitted in the death of unarmed 18-year-old Michael Brown, for the mere suspicion of shoplifting, a resident named Cori Bush was moved to act, crusading for change and winning a race for Congress in 2020.

There is a difference between soothing ourselves against repeated traumas, and surrendering our dignity and health. Learning the difference is, for us, what self-care is truly all about.