giving one less f*ck

Melanie Chavez • August 10, 2026

the gentle practice of caring less about everything else so you can care more about you

There is a book about not giving a f*ck that changed the way a lot of people think about their lives. But I want to talk about the idea in my own way, from the softer side — the yoga teacher, healer, self-love side. Because at the heart of it, this is not about becoming cold or careless or checked out. It is not about not caring at all.

It is about caring about the right things. It is about giving one less f*ck — every day, in small ways — until you have finally freed up the energy to care about what actually matters.

So many of us are worn thin because we care about everything. We carry the opinions of people who barely know us. We agonize over what we look like, what we said, what we should have said, what we might have done differently. We keep endless mental to-do lists. We measure ourselves against a hundred standards we did not even choose. We are exhausted from caring about everything but ourselves.

What if we cared a little less?

Not about the things that matter. Not about our people, our purpose, our health, our growth, our loved ones. Those things still get our full hearts. But everything else? The noise. The pressure. The performance. The endless mental weight of what everyone else might be thinking or expecting or wanting from us?

What if we gave one less f*ck about all of that?

Giving one less f*ck about what other people think

This one is huge. And it takes real practice.

Most of us were shaped from a young age to care deeply about how we were perceived. To be good. To be liked. To make sure no one had a problem with us. And so we became experts at performing. At editing ourselves. At quietly bending to fit whatever room we were in.

But here is the truth. Most people are far too busy thinking about themselves to be thinking about you as much as you fear. And even when they are — even when they judge you, criticize you, misunderstand you — that is their business. Not yours.

You cannot live your life inside other people's opinions. You just can't. It is exhausting and it is impossible and it is not why you are here. You are here to live your life. Not a life shaped by the fear of what your neighbor, your mother-in-law, your former friend, your coworker, or a stranger on the internet might think of you.

Give one less f*ck about what they think. Care more about what you know.

Giving one less f*ck about what you look like

Yes, I said it. Care a little less.

Not because how you look does not matter — take care of your body, love your body, dress in a way that feels good to you. But so many of us have spent so much of our lives worrying about how we look that we forgot to just be in our bodies. To move. To live. To dance and sweat and eat and love and take up space without checking a mirror first.

The wrinkles are going to come. The hair is going to gray. The body is going to change. This is the deal. This is being alive. And spending your one precious life worrying about the way it looks from the outside is one of the great tragedies of modern womanhood.

Give one less f*ck about the appearance. Care more about how you feel. Care more about how alive you are. Care more about what your body can do, how it carries you, how it holds you.

Giving one less f*ck about what you're supposed to do

The supposed to is one of the sneakiest thieves of a real life.

You are supposed to have your career figured out by now. You are supposed to be married by now. You are supposed to be over it by now. You are supposed to want the same things everyone else wants. You are supposed to be further along. You are supposed to do it this way.

Says who?

Almost every supposed to is inherited. Handed to you by a culture, a family, a religion, a generation that decided how life should look. And most of us have never even stopped to ask if we agree.

I'll be honest with you — I have always been a late bloomer. I started my career late. I had my kids late. I did most things later than the supposed to told me I should. And for a long time, that felt like a problem. I felt behind. I felt like I was doing life wrong. I compared myself to everyone else who seemed to be right on schedule.

But it wasn't until my 50s that I truly discovered me. Who I am. Who I am supposed to be. What I am supposed to do. For over five decades, I lived inside somebody else's version of the supposed to. I did what was expected. I checked the boxes. I followed the map I had been handed. And it wasn't until I stopped caring so much about all of that, that I finally started to hear myself. Finally started to meet the real me. Finally started to understand what I was actually here for.

If I had spent my whole life living by the supposed to, I would have missed her. I would have missed the woman I was always meant to become.

Now I see my late blooming differently. I was not behind. I was unfolding on my own timeline. I was becoming exactly who I needed to become, exactly when I was ready to become her. There is no map for that. There is no right age for that. There is only your own soul's timing, quietly guiding you toward yourself, if you can trust it enough to listen.

I want you to know: it is not too late. It is never too late. Some of us do not meet ourselves until much later in life, and there is a reason for that. The layers had to come off. The conditioning had to loosen. The supposed to had to fall away before the real thing could come through.

Give one less f*ck about the supposed to. Care more about the want to. Care more about what makes you feel alive. Care more about what your soul is quietly asking for underneath all the shoulds. Your real life is waiting on the other side of those inherited rules. And it does not have an expiration date.

Giving one less f*ck about the to-do list

The list will still be there tomorrow. It always is.

Most of us treat the to-do list like it is a moral document. Like our worth is measured by how much we crossed off. Like if we could just finish everything on it, we would finally feel okay.

But the list does not end. It regenerates itself. There is always more. And if you wait to feel peaceful until the list is done, you will wait forever.

Give one less f*ck about the list. Care more about the moment. Care more about the actual life happening around you while you are hustling to check off tasks. Care more about the walk you did not take, the friend you did not call, the sunset you missed while you were folding laundry.

The list is not going anywhere. Your life is.

Giving one less f*ck about being everything to everyone

You are not a bottomless well. You cannot be all things to all people. When you try, you end up depleted, resentful, and disconnected from the person you actually are.

Give one less f*ck about being everything to everyone. Care more about being fully yourself with the people who matter. Care more about the depth of your connections instead of the number of them. Care more about protecting your energy so you have something real to give to the people and things you love.

Giving one less f*ck about the noise

The news. The scroll. The comparison. The constant hum of everyone else's opinions, updates, drama, and highlight reels.

You do not need to know all of it. You do not need to have a take on everything. You do not need to keep up with every stranger's life. You do not need to marinate in the noise.

Give one less f*ck about the noise. Care more about your own peace. Your own quiet. Your own inner voice, which cannot be heard when the outside world is turned up too loud.

Caring more about you

Here is the beautiful part. When you start giving one less f*ck about everything else, something opens up.

You have room to care about what you actually want. What you actually need. What you actually think and feel and dream and long for. You have room to care about your own body, your own rest, your own joy, your own peace. You have room to care about the person you are becoming instead of the person everyone else expects you to be.

Caring less about the outside makes room for so much more caring about the inside.

And this is what self-love actually is. Not bubble baths. Not affirmations you do not believe. Not a spa day. Self-love is the daily practice of caring more about your own wellbeing than about the opinions and expectations pressing in on you from every direction.

Self-love is asking, what do I want? and letting the answer matter.

Self-love is asking, what do I need? and giving it to yourself.

Self-love is asking, what do I think? and trusting that your knowing is enough.

Self-love is protecting your energy. Choosing your peace. Honoring your no. Making room for your yes. Letting yourself want what you want without justifying it to anyone.

How to start giving one less f*ck

Notice when you are worrying about what someone else thinks and gently ask, does this actually matter? Most of the time, the answer is no.

Notice when you are performing instead of being. Pause. Come back to yourself.

Notice when you are exhausted from caring about the wrong things and give yourself permission to set some of them down.

Notice the supposed to voice. Ask who wrote that rule. Decide if you still agree.

Notice the noise. Turn it down. Put the phone in the other room. Let there be quiet.

Notice what actually matters to you when you strip away all the noise. Care about that. Let the rest go.

One less is enough

Let me be clear about this. Giving one less f*ck does not mean you become someone who does not care. It means you become someone who cares about the right things. Who has more energy for the people you love. Who is present for the things that actually matter. Who moves through the world with peace instead of pressure.

Giving one less f*ck is not detachment. It is discernment. It is choosing where your energy goes with intention. It is refusing to spend your life on things that do not deserve your attention so that you can pour yourself fully into the things that do.

You do not have to become someone who gives no f*cks. That is not the goal, and honestly, that is not you. You care deeply. You feel deeply. That is your gift.

But you can give one less. And then one less after that. And one less after that.

Until you finally have enough energy left over to fully love the life you are living. And the person living it.

Give one less f*ck about the noise. Care more about you.

Give one less f*ck about the opinions. Care more about your peace.

Give one less f*ck about the performance. Care more about the truth.

Give one less f*ck about the supposed to. Care more about the want to.

That is the practice. That is the art. That is one of the most freeing, life-giving shifts you can make.

You have exactly one life. Do not spend it caring about the wrong things.

Care about you. That is where it all begins.

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when your world feels unsafe: holding trauma in the wake of natural disaster

By Melanie Chavez • July 7, 2026

there is a particular kind of grief that comes from watching the land you love turn to smoke. for over a week now, our foothills have been burning. the Aspen Acres fire has moved through precious communities — places that have felt safe to us. they are where we hiked, where we knew the shape of the ridgeline against the sky, where some of us built our whole lives. thousands of our neighbors have been evacuated. many still don't know if their homes are standing. some already know they are not. if you are reading this from inside that experience, or from just outside it watching people you love go through it, i want to say the thing that trauma work has taught me above almost everything else: there is no wrong way to be feeling right now. numbness is not weakness. tears are not an overreaction. rage at the sky is not dramatic. your nervous system is doing exactly what it was built to do when the ground itself stops feeling safe. for those of you living it directly if you evacuated, if you're waiting for word on your house, if you've already lost it — your body has been in survival mode for days, maybe longer than you've let yourself notice. that matters more than it might seem. the nervous system doesn't clock the difference between "the fire is still burning six miles away" and "the fire is in my living room." it just knows danger, and it stays braced for it. so the first thing i want to offer you isn't advice. it's permission. permission to not be okay yet. permission to feel oddly calm one hour and shattered the next — that's not you failing to cope, that's what regulation actually looks like when the threat isn't fully over. permission to grieve things that feel "smaller" than a house — a garden, a view, the quiet of a place, a version of normal you can't get back to yet. a few things that can genuinely help while your body is still in this state, not as a fix but as an anchor: your breath is one of the only parts of your nervous system you can reach directly. when you notice your chest is tight or your thoughts are racing, try making your exhale longer than your inhale — in for four, out for six or seven. this isn't about calming down on command. it's about giving your body evidence, slowly, that it's allowed to come down out of the high alert it's been living in. let your hands do something. fold laundry, dig in dirt, hold a warm mug, press your palms flat against a table. trauma lives in the body, and the body often finds its way back before the mind does. you don't have to think your way out of this. you can feel your way out of it too. be careful with the news cycle and the acreage updates. staying informed matters, but there's a difference between checking in and marinating. give yourself windows where you put it down, even for twenty minutes. and please, let people help you. i know how hard that is for those of us who are used to being the strong ones, the ones who hold space for everyone else. this is not the week to prove you don't need anything. accepting a meal, a couch, a hand with paperwork — that is not weakness. that is community doing what it's for. for those of you holding space for someone else maybe your home is fine and someone you love's isn't. maybe you're a practitioner, a neighbor, a friend who wants to help and doesn't know how, or worries anything you say will land wrong. i see you too, and i want to gently say — you are allowed to be affected by this even if you didn't lose anything. holding space for grief you're not the center of is its own kind of weight, and it's real. when you're supporting someone who is displaced or grieving a home, the most healing thing you can offer usually isn't a solution. it's your steadiness. you don't need the right words. you need to be a nervous system that isn't in crisis, sitting next to one that is — because our bodies borrow calm from each other. that's not a metaphor, it's physiology. your presence alone is doing work. resist the urge to rush them toward silver linings. "at least everyone's safe" is true and it can still land as dismissive when someone is standing in the ash of their kitchen. let people be devastated in front of you without trying to fix the devastation. ask what they need instead of guessing — sometimes it's practical, sometimes it's just someone to sit with them while they don't talk at all. and take care of your own capacity. you cannot pour from a nervous system that's also running on empty. it's okay to help and also need to step away and refill. what tragedy also reveals there is something else true alongside the grief, and it deserves its own space here, because it's part of the healing too. tragedy has a way of showing us exactly who we are as a community, and this week it's shown us something beautiful. people who lost almost everything have still shown up to help set up donation centers for their neighbors. volunteers who have no personal stake in these mountains have been driving in from surrounding towns just to serve meals and set up water slides for evacuated kids, because a child deserves a moment of joy even in the middle of losing their home. strangers have opened their homes, their trucks, their wallets, their weekends. shelters filled almost as fast as the evacuation orders went out. this is what happens when a community remembers it's a community — not because the danger disappears, but because no one has to face it alone. this is the part of trauma that doesn't get talked about enough: it isn't only rupture. it can also be the thing that softens the walls between us. the person who wouldn't normally ask for help learns to receive it. the person who's never volunteered a day in their life shows up with a truck bed full of water bottles. we are reminded, sometimes at great cost, how much we actually need each other — and how willing we are to show up when it counts. that thread of connection is its own kind of medicine. it won't undo what's been lost. but it is proof, in real time, that this community knows how to hold itself together even while it's breaking. a word on collective grief this fire isn't just individual loss stacked eleven thousand times over. it's a collective wound. our community is going to be metabolizing this together for a long time — longer than the containment percentage will suggest, longer than the news will stay interested. healing from something like this isn't linear and it isn't quick, and it doesn't happen alone. it happens in kitchens and donation centers and circles like the ones we hold at the studio, in the small acts of people showing up for each other again and again. if you need a place to simply be with what you're carrying — not to perform okay-ness, not to have it fixed, just to be held in it — our doors are open. whatever you're feeling this week, it belongs here. we will rebuild what can be rebuilt. and what can't be rebuilt, we will grieve together, for as long as it takes.