Are We Resisting Capitalism or Reinforcing it?: A Response to “Consumption Culture Burned Me Out”
Editor’s Note: In an earlier version of this essay, I incorrectly referenced the author’s partner as a cisgender, heterosexual white man. This assumption was absolutely careless and harmful, as it reinforces the erasure and exclusion of trans people. As a cis white woman striving to avoid reinforcing the systems I critique, I failed in this instance. I recognize how this mistake perpetuates erasure, especially for trans individuals. I deeply regret this oversight and any harm it may have caused, especially to trans readers. I wholeheartedly apologize and commit to verifying information in the future to avoid such harmful assumptions.
From “Girl Boss” to “Slow Living”: As White Women We Continue to Ignore Our Systemic Privilege and Power
Self-care, as originally articulated by Audre Lorde, was never about bubble baths, face masks, or retreating from society at the expense of Black and Indigenous folks. In her seminal work A Burst of Light, she wrote: “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.” Lorde’s radical articulation of self-care was about survival for Black queer women whose existence is perpetually under siege within what bell hooks called imperialist-white supremacist-capitalist-patriarchy (may she rest in power). Lorde’s theory of self-care was rooted in the understanding that it’s inseperable from community care, not in opposition to it. Yet, in the essay “Consumption Culture Burned Me Out”, this revolutionary idea has been stripped of its political context and meaning.
It’s ironic that the author critiques consumerism and burnout culture while still benefiting from the privileges of white affluence. Although she doesn’t necessarily commodify self-care in the traditional sense, she participates in capitalism’s extractive and exploitative structures by moving to the Oakland Hills—a gentrified area where affluent, white individuals contribute to the displacement of long-standing Black and Indigenous communities. Her attempt to distance herself from capitalism’s hustle culture unintentionally reinforces it by aligning with current trends of anti-hustle living, a luxury accessible only to those with privilege.
As white women, we've shifted from "girlboss" to "slow living" and “wellness” trends, all of which ignore the systemic privilege and power that allows one to participate in either end of the spectrum. The essay I'm critiquing exemplifies how white women have appropriated self-care without acknowledging its historical and political roots. What might appear to be a thoughtful reflection on capitalism's perils and the importance of rest is, in reality, a repackaging and white-washing of Black Feminist theory that overlooks the systems of oppression enabling our "escape" from the very capitalist system we claim to resist. It's deeply ironic to critique something while failing to acknowledge how we benefit from it.
I began to understand more deeply how as white women we've co-opted the concept of self-care by reading Kathleen Newman-Bremang’s essay, "Reclaiming Audre Lorde’s Radical Self-Care For Black Women," on Refinery29. Newman-Bremang traces self-care back to its roots through the work of Audre Lorde, and explains how white women have stripped it of its original context. She writes, "Lorde’s version of self-care was not about indulgence. It was about survival." This helped me realize how self-care has been diluted, commodified, and transformed into something that primarily benefits us white women. Newman-Bremang powerfully reminds us that "for Black women, Lorde’s self-care was radical because it was about saving themselves in a world that didn’t care if they survived."
White Escapism
The author’s decision to leave the city and “get back to the land” might seem like a critique of capitalist overconsumption, but it overlooks the reality of stolen land and ongoing colonization. The notion of “escaping” capitalism by returning to nature is inherently flawed because it ignores how white people have historically benefited from, and continue to prop up, settler colonialism. There is no such thing as “getting back to the land” for white people because this isn’t our land. The land, parks, and nature reserves we enjoy today were created through the violent displacement of Indigenous peoples—a history often ignored by white narratives of retreat and personal healing. As I learned from Jolie Varela and her work with Indigenous Women Hike, outdoor spaces, although often romanticized as untouched or neutral, are sites of ongoing colonial violence.
Varela is dedicated to reclaiming her ancestral homelands and raising awareness about how these outdoor spaces, which white people often treat as places for personal leisure or self-care, are inextricably tied to the history of stolen land and genocide. She asserts, "You can't separate outdoor recreation from the history of stolen land and genocide.” This is a crucial point: the author’s ability to move freely between the city and the land is predicated on the violent theft of Indigenous lands. Varela’s work shows how white people often overlook the colonial history that underpins their experiences and unfettered access in the outdoors, treating land as a site for personal healing or leisure, completely ignoring Indigenous displacement and marginalization, as well as the ongoing fight for Indigenous sovereignty. Through her activism, Varela reveals how ignoring this history perpetuates the erasure of Indigenous struggles, and by failing to engage with these realities, narratives like “Consumption Culture Burned Me Out” reinforce settler colonial myths and uphold white supremacy by omitting Indigenous perspectives.
Varela’s work with Indigenous Women Hike shows us that true healing and reconnection with the land cannot happen without grappling with the historical and ongoing impacts of colonization. The narrative of "escaping" capitalism through nature, without acknowledging the harm of settler colonialism, reinforces the very systems of oppression that created the current economic and environmental crises. As white people, we benefit from the legacies of colonization, and we continue to uphold these systems when we treat nature as a commodity for personal healing rather than engaging with the struggles of those whose land we occupy.
Another crucial point is that the author benefits from safety and privilege derived from her whiteness, despite her partnership not being a traditional cisheteronormative relationship. I previously made an incorrect assumption about her partner's identity, presuming they were a cisgender, heterosexual white man. As mentioned in my editor's note, I deeply apologize for this harmful oversight, especially to my trans readers, and commit to rectifying this by thoroughly researching and verifying information for future essays.
This mistake doesn't negate the layers of privilege that come with whiteness, allowing her to "escape" when the city overwhelms her. Her whiteness permits her to move freely between "the land" and the city—a privilege that Black and Indigenous queer individuals do not share. Black queer folks, particularly femmes and trans people, navigate a world where both urban and rural spaces present inherent risks—a reality this white woman's narrative fails to address.
When white women, including myself, speak of “retreating” or “getting back to the land,” it too often stems from a place of unearned privilege and entitlement. Our whiteness affords us the ability to move between urban and rural spaces with the assumption that our presence is welcome, natural, and safe. Meanwhile, Indigenous people often feel alienated in their own homelands. As Indigenous activist Winona LaDuke powerfully writes in her book All Our Relations: Native Struggles for Land and Life, "To be Indigenous in North America is to be a stranger in your own homeland. It's like being an alien in the only place you can call home."
Gentrification, Privilege, and "Escaping" to the Oakland Hills
The author’s decision to leave Los Angeles and retreat to the affluent Oakland Hills reveals another glaring oversight: Gentrification in Oakland is a significant and ongoing issue. Here’s a snapshot of the cost of living in Oakland.To gloss over the dynamics of gentrification while framing Oakland as a serene refuge for personal healing is not only ignorant but also harmful to the very communities being displaced by affluent, white people. But what do I know? You could rent your very own private bedroom in an elegant 6 bed, 4.5 bath in the Oakland Hills for only $1,450 a month and find out for yourself if it provides magical healing and rest!
Oakland has long been a site of Black political activism, home to the Black Panther Party, shaping Black revolutionary leaders like Angela Davis, and a stronghold of resistance against systemic racism and police brutality. However, Black, Indigenous, and working-class communities that built and sustained its legacy of resistance are shrinking. In 2021, Oakland’s city council declared racism a public health crisis because of the tangible harm done to Black communities through practices like redlining, discriminatory housing policies, and the lack of affordable housing in the face of gentrification. White residents moving into affluent areas like the Oakland Hills are complicit in this cycle of displacement. By retreating to the Oakland Hills, this author participates in this violent system.
Framing her move as an act of self-care highlights her detachment from the communities who can’t simply “escape” to the hills. For many long-term Oakland residents, especially Black and Indigenous folks, there is no option to retreat from systemic violence. As The Bold Italic notes, gentrification in Oakland has driven a wedge between the city’s deep-rooted cultural identity and the influx of new residents seeking to capitalize on the city’s “revitalization.” White people moving into Oakland’s affluent neighborhoods often fail to acknowledge that our presence contributes to the erasure of Black culture and community.
This narrative of “escaping” to Oakland without acknowledging the harm of gentrification also obscures the city’s longstanding fight against racism. To ignore this history while benefiting from the city’s gentrification reflects a profound lack of self-awareness and responsibility. Moving from LA to the Oakland Hills is not a revolutionary act of self-care; it’s a reflection of the privileges afforded by whiteness and proximity to wealth. Oakland’s rich history of resistance cannot be reduced to a backdrop for white escape from capitalist burnout. Neither can the so-called Sierras, which the author also briefly mentions. As Jolie Varela of Indigenous Women Hike teaches, the mountainous region is called Pamidu Toiyabe by Indigenous peoples, and their histories should be uplifted.
To be in solidarity with Black and Indigenous people in Oakland, Pamidu Toiyabe, and globally, white settlers must confront our role in the ongoing gentrification crisis and challenge our complicity in the displacement of these communities. This is something I'm grappling with myself as a settler occupying so-called St. Louis, Missouri, the stolen homelands of the Osage, Miami, Oceti Sakowin, Chickasaw, Illini, Ioway, Kickapoo, Otoe-Missouria, and the Quapaw peoples.
Tricia Hersey and the Politics of Rest
While the essay frames rest, slowing down, and connecting with nature as a personal solution to burnout, it lacks the systemic analysis that Black feminists like Tricia Hersey, founder of The Nap Ministry, have long pointed out. Hersey's philosophy draws on Black liberation theology and asserts that rest is not simply about recuperation from overwork, but is a radical rejection of white supremacy’s demands on Black bodies. Hersey’s first book, Rest is Resistance: A Manifesto, talks about how rest is a form of reparative justice for Black people whose labor has been continuously extracted by white supremacist systems. Her forthcoming book, We Will Rest, continues to expand on these ideas, envisioning a future where rest is central to collective liberation.
When white women speak of rest, we often do so without recognizing the systemic privilege that allows us the option to “opt-out” of productivity. This mirrors the larger pattern of white women appropriating Black feminist frameworks while conveniently avoiding any deep interrogation of our own complicity in maintaining the systems we claim to critique. In her book Women, Race, and Class, Davis illuminates this avoidance, underscoring the ways in which white feminism has often failed to account for the lived realities of Black women.
Hersey emphasizes that rest is not just about self-indulgence or personal escape but about healing from generational trauma and rejecting the dehumanizing effects of capitalism. Unlike the author of “Consumption Culture Burned Me Out,” Hersey does not position rest as an individual pursuit but rather a collective, political act of reclamation, especially for Black people who have been historically exploited.
In an episode of Hoodrat to Headwrap: A Decolonized Podcast, hosts Ericka Hart and Ebony Donnely speak with Hersey about how whiteness co-opts concepts like self-care without addressing capitalism's systemic violence. She notes how white supremacy culture shifted from glorifying "the grind" to now trending towards slowness, but it conveniently ignores how marginalized communities—particularly Black people—are still being exploited. Hersey revealed that when white people talk about rest, people accept the message without defiance. But when a Black woman like her says, “Listen to your body, see your body as a divine place,” there’s resistance.
Hersey points out the reality of poverty trauma, saying: "We're all one paycheck away from being in the shelter. That's real." She understands the tension between needing to rest and needing to survive in a capitalist system: "How can I, as a Black woman, tell you not to work? I have bills. I have children." But her message is clear: rest is not a luxury; it is essential for liberation.
Hersey emphasizes that rest is "lifelong work" and requires "reimagination in subversive ways." “Black ancestors,” she explains, “laid a blueprint for how this could work, and if we fail to tap into that Black history of rest, we are missing out on essential wisdom.” Hersey shares the story of Harriet Tubman, an unsung environmentalist, who followed the stars to freedom. Tubman would stop to pray and rest even when dogs were chasing her and a bounty was on her head. "She needed to stop and get a word, to hear, to pray, and to know which way to go. To me, that is rest," Hersey reflects. For Hersey, "Resting is anything that connects your body and mind," she explains, listing practices like long walks, ballet lessons, and even her grandmother "resting her eyes between two jobs."
By appropriating the language of rest and escape and framing it as a personal awakening, without acknowledging Black history and the Black feminists and thinkers like Hersey and Lorde who laid the groundwork for our understanding of rest, the author perpetuates the erasure of the very communities whose labor and suffering shaped this body of knowledge. It’s not just a missed opportunity for critical analysis, it’s a perpetuation of a long history of white feminism co-opting ideas from Black feminist thought without acknowledgment or accountability. In Ain’t I a Woman, bell hooks writes about the ways in which white feminism consistently erases the contributions of Black women. The essayist’s failure to engage with the legacies of these thinkers not only diminishes the power of their work but also allows the conversation to be absorbed into a white, individualistic frame. Tricia Hersey and Audre Lorde's contributions should not merely be footnotes in discussions of rest—they should be at the center.
Even if the author is aware of her privilege and familiar with authors like Tricia Hersey and Audre Lorde, it remains deeply irresponsible not to explicitly credit them. Hersey’s work on “rest as resistance,” and Lorde’s visionary ideas around self-care as “an act of political warfare,” are foundational to any discussions around rejecting capitalism and prioritizing rest. Black women have been at the forefront of these conversations for decades and their contributions deserve recognition and honor.
Co-opting Audre Lorde’s Self-Care
Audre Lorde’s concept of self-care was never about individual healing. It was about survival in the face of systems designed to dehumanize Black queer women. When the essay turns self-care into an individualized practice divorced from its roots in Black feminist resistance, it perpetuates the same systems of exploitation that Lorde was fighting against.
It is not enough to practice self-care without interrogating how our privilege allows us the freedom to rest while others are denied that same right. We must move beyond white feminist narratives that center individual well-being and embrace a collective vision of healing that addresses the root causes of our collective burnout. This means listening to Black feminist thinkers, acknowledging our complicity in white supremacy, and committing to interrupting toxic masculinity wherever we encounter it—whether that’s in the outdoor industry or our personal relationships.
If we want to be in solidarity with Black and Indigenous women here are some questions we could ask ourselves:
How are we showing up for our communities—local and global?
How are we addressing our complicity in these systems?
Whose voices are we centering in our activism/writing/social media posts/newsletters/pedagogy/curriculums, etc., and whose are we ignoring?
How are we using our privilege to challenge and dismantle systems of oppression, rather than just benefiting from them?
In what ways are we perpetuating white supremacy, even unintentionally, through our actions or silence?
How are we redistributing resources, power, and opportunities to those who have been historically marginalized?
Are we listening to Black and Indigenous leaders, and how are we taking action based on their guidance, rather than co-opting their ideas?
How are we holding ourselves and other white women accountable for upholding oppressive structures?
Are we truly making space for the healing and liberation of others, or are we centering ourselves in this work?
How are we challenging toxic masculinity and white supremacy within our own circles, especially when it risks our comfort (not our safety)?
These questions can help us examine our role in maintaining or dismantling the systems we claim to resist.
All my feminist killjoy love,
Erin (she/her)
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