10 Signs You’re Due for a Self-Care Reset

Some days, my body speaks before I’m ready to listen. My balance wobbles, my movements grow sharper, my speech feels slower to form. Living with Huntington’s disease means these aren’t just random bad days, they’re signals. Quiet messages saying, You’re running on fumes. It’s time to pause.

A self-care reset is not a luxury. It’s not the occasional candlelit bath or a stolen afternoon nap, though those can help. A true reset is an intentional interruption of the pace I’ve been keeping, a chance to repair the wear and tear before it spirals into being riddled with symptoms.

For years, I resisted this truth. I thought rest was giving in. I wanted to prove that I could keep up, keep producing, keep showing up. But pushing through ignoring the fatigue, brushing off small changes in symptoms only made me more vulnerable. The harder I fought against my body’s needs, the louder my symptoms became.

I’ve learned that the earliest signs of depletion often appear in my mood. I grow impatient, sensitive, easily resentful. Requests that wouldn’t normally bother me suddenly feel overwhelming. That emotional fraying seeps into my HD symptoms, movements grow less coordinated, speech less fluid. Now, I take those shifts seriously. They mean I’ve been pouring out more than I’ve been refilling. A reset begins with grace: permission to stop, to say no, to rest without explanation.

Other times, the signs are physical first. I might appear clumsy and tired. I’ve learned that “pushing through” doesn’t help. What helps is leaning into restorative practices. Stretching gently, listening to music, or closing my eyes for a midday nap without guilt.

My surroundings can also tell the story. When clutter piles up, laundry, unopened mail, half-finished projects my anxiety rises and my energy drops. Part of my reset is reclaiming my environment. Even small efforts, like clearing the table or adding fresh flowers, signal to my brain that my space is safe and calm, not another source of stress.

Nutrition and hydration are just as vital. Skipping meals or grabbing processed snacks might be easy, but the effects are almost immediate, balance slips, brain fog settles in, my mood dips. Resetting means slowing down enough to prepare a meal that nourishes: colorful vegetables, lean proteins, whole grains. I treat water as care, not a chore, because my body needs it to function well.

A reset is also about quieting the inner critic that thrives on comparison. It’s easy to mourn what I used to do without effort. But shame drains energy I can’t afford to lose. During a reset, I speak to myself like I would a friend: You’re doing your best. You’re allowed to move slower. You don’t have to earn care.

The best resets are preventative. I don’t have to hit the breaking point before I pause. I’ve started checking in regularly emotionally, physically, mentally to catch depletion early. If I feel tension building or notice my movements getting heavier, I adjust: rescheduling an outing, setting aside a day for quiet, or practicing guided meditation. Visualizing being near calm water, the steady horizon helps slow the rush inside my nervous system.

Living with HD has made me acutely aware that energy is a limited resource. Where I spend it matters. A self-care reset is not about doing less forever; it’s about creating space so I can show up fully for what matters most. It’s a strategy for longevity, not laziness.

This requires swimming against the current of a culture that celebrates constant output. Stillness can look like idleness to the outside world, but I’ve learned it’s the foundation for my strength. In stillness, my nervous system recovers, my mind clears, and my compassion for myself and others, returns.

When I choose a self-care reset, I’m saying: I value my health over my hustle. I choose presence over performance, grace over guilt. And when I honor that choice, my symptoms feel lighter, my patience deepens, and my hope brightens. My body steadies, my mind quiets, and I remember that caring for myself is the most productive thing I can do.

Self-care, especially with a HD, is not an afterthought. It’s the daily, sometimes difficult, act of listening to my body’s early signals and responding with compassion. When I do, I give myself the best chance to keep living the life I want, one that’s slower, softer, and far more sustainable.