Page 1 of Red, White, and You

Brie

The pamphlet sits on my desk, its color scheme playful and bright against the stark monochrome décor of my office. It’s out of place here, a sore thumb. Which is enough to give me pause even as the advertisement tries to tempt me with images of adults playing—actuallyplaying—in ways I haven’t considered in years. From canoe races to ropes courses, arts and crafts and campfires… this adults-only summer camp promises to deliver everything I left behind in my search for wealth and power in a man’s world.

But don’t weallleave those things behind?Everyonestops playing at some age, just as surely as we stop believing in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. It’s normal, natural even.

And yet… the little girl I’ve tucked away inside begs me to go. There’s something so alluring in the concept. Or perhaps they simply have an incredible marketing team.

It’s just one week; I can leave the firm forone week, can’t I?

God knows, I’ve hired only the best. If anyone knows what they’re capable of, it’s me.

I personally trained them to be fierce and in control, both inandout of the courtroom.

Formed them in my image.

Surely, my partners and team can put out any fires that arise while I’m gone.

It’s just one week.

I reach for the flier and slide it toward me, tapping my red fingernail against the bright green trees. Sure, it alllooksgreat. On paper.

But what will the actual experience be like? Fun? Or… exhausting?

Do I want to break nails on ropes courses and get blisters from hiking boots that haven’t been worn in—or even worn? Can I really spare the time away for an outcome I can’t predict? Take a week off on… a gamble?

It’s not a crime to take a vacation. The world won’t end if I unplug for a few days. At least, that’s what the #YOLO crowd is always saying, anyway.Self-care is a necessity, not an option—or some nonsense like that.

Or my favorite guilt-heavy slogan:How can I take care of others if I don’t take care of myself?

Easy. I don’t have any others to care for.

“Problem solved.”

I shake my head. The fact that I’m even having this inner debate is laughable. And now I’m talking to myself. I push the flier away in disgust. It’s not for me.

Relaxation.

Free time.

These are not words in my vocabulary.

I work hard. Hustle even harder.

When given the choice between self-care and companionship or building a law firm that rivals the best in New York, it wasn’t a choice at all. All work and no play might have made Jack Torrance a dull boy, but it made Brielle Donovan-West rich as hell and powerful beyond her wildest dreams.

I make grown men cower in the courtroom, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Self-care is a foolish idea created by influencers and companies trying to push eye creams and cucumber masks. By women’s magazines who’d love for you to believe you’re doing too much… while telling you three pages later you’re clearly not doing enough. Mommy bloggers and marketing teams intent on pitting us against one another, doing their best to convince women that choosing careers over children is somehow unnatural or wrong, while simultaneously calling women who choose children over a career lazy and privileged.

Well, screw that and screw them.

My self-careisthis career.

My baby is this law firm.

A week spent in the wilderness, getting eaten by bugs, bears, and God only knows what else? Hard pass.

And yet…

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