A herd of toddlers crowd the ballet studio. Most of these miscreants spin in circles or invent entirely new dance moves. One child, however, marches around in tiny toddler steps to correct her less devoted classmates. She even treks to the teacher’s side (if not in front of the teacher) to demonstrate the right way to dance. This diva child, as my family can easily confirm with a chuckle, was me. But my history of being a know-it-all didn’t stop at the ballet studio. I have argued with my mother (a Yale-educated anesthesiologist) about science, offered directions to taxi drivers in foreign countries, and debated tour guides at the Louvre. While my sassiness and spunk have diffused as I’ve grown older, I admit I’m still a bit of a know-it-all. During my twelfth year of high school, my self-assurance soared to new heights.

At The Classical Academy, seniors complete capstone projects in order to graduate. My task was to prepare a fifteen-minute speech outlining how humans can live the good life. After presenting before my peers, a panel of my past teachers, and eventually the highest administrators of my school, I was awarded a giant silver trophy at graduation. As you can imagine, this award was extremely validating for someone battling their know-it-all tendencies.

The following summer passed by in a similarly perfect manner. I had finished high school with good marks, and I enjoyed my last adventures before college. There were popsicles, amusement parks, and late-night drives through the mountains. I had a loving family, a devoted boyfriend, and a bright future. I knew it all. I even knew how to live the good life! My school confirmed that with a trophy! But in fact my life was really a house of cards―perfect, but vulnerable to the slightest shock.

If a slight shock could bring about my collapse, then August began with an earthquake. As my friends went to their respective universities, I remained alone. My hometown, which was once full of life and laughter, felt like a ghost town. The city haunted me with memories of the past and reminded me of my own loneliness. While everyone else moved forward with their lives, I seemed to be regressing. My family, the greatest support system I had left, also faced an irrevocable change: my father was diagnosed with cancer. I realized I knew nothing about the future or the present for that matter. My award-winning presentation on happiness was useless as my world crumbled.

When I wasn’t at work, I was at home for hours on end. I watched all eleven seasons of the 80’s sitcom Cheers to pass the time. I texted my far-away friends incessantly, although I couldn’t tell them about my father. When we spoke, they were jealous that I didn’t have school stress, and I was jealous they were living normal lives. Our worlds didn’t line up anymore. Dinners were the worst time of day. In the past, we used to tell stories and catch up on each other’s lives. When my father was receiving radiation in his mouth, however, dinners were a depressing spectacle. The treatments made him lose his sense of taste, and he could barely swallow. And so we watched him wither away, pound by pound. After long shifts at the hospital, my mom spent hours crafting new recipes. When the food was ready, we would glance at him expectantly. Yet, in those six weeks of treatment, I could not name one dish of which he ate more than a few bites.

I was desperate to stay strong for my family, but I didn’t know where to find this strength. I didn’t know where to turn. Eventually, I looked for guidance in a culture I’d never shown interest in before, a culture so ingrained in society that we hardly remark on its presence in bookstores or on TV. I turned to self-help. More specifically, I read Yung Pueblo’s self-help book Inward. It helped me cope with my father’s radiation treatments and increasing sense of isolation. Pueblo’s words were simple, and blank space rather than text overwhelmed the pages. Even more unique than the book’s layout was the text itself. Lessons such as “freedom is observing our pain / letting it go / and moving forward” came in the form of independent poems and short essays. With every passing page, the white space and simplistic words clearly revealed Yung Pueblo’s message to me. Life is chaotic, cruel, and confusing; it can bring the greatest sorrows at whim. Yet, Inward taught me to embrace life! Because with every low, there is a high at the horizon. People must weather bad times, even the worst of times, as life will inevitably get better. After all, life is dictated by change not permanence. In order to weather life’s storms, however, Yung Pueblo encouraged turning inwards for solace. I took this advice to heart. Thus, by improving myself, I found that I could better handle situations, like a cancer diagnosis, that were out of my control. As I arrived on Boston University’s campus in January, I continuously applied Inward’s lessons to my life. I felt happier and more secure. Additionally, I felt a great appreciation for Yung Pueblo, and even the self-help industry as a whole. After all, this culture helped me rebuild a positive perspective on life.

I never second-guessed the usefulness of America’s self-help culture until I read Molly Worthen’s article “Stop Saying ‘I Feel Like.’” This opinion piece within The New York Times argues that self-help culture encourages people to value feelings over facts. It inspires people to be more in tune with their emotions and to protect the feelings of others―even at the risk of hindering necessary debates. One argument in particular led me to a spiral of questions regarding self-help:

This quest to understand and cope with our own feelings and desires — the current term of art is “self-care” — can lead to what the writer Christopher Lasch called “pseudo-self-awareness.” It can leave us too preoccupied with personal satisfaction to see the world clearly. “The new narcissist is haunted not by guilt but by anxiety,” Mr. Lasch wrote in his 1979 book “The Culture of Narcissism.”

Worthen’s article made me ask myself: Could self-help harm me more than help me?

Before answering this question, a working definition of self-help literature is essential. Within the book Transnational Popular Psychology and the Global Self-Help Industry, sociologist Daniel Nehring does just this. Nehring vaguely defines self-help literature as texts that “offer advice and guidance on a very broad range of topics” (6). These topics range from commonplace problems to substantial predicaments such as weight loss, divorce, and depression (6). Basically, for any human problem that exists, a self-help book on that topic probably exists too. Does your cat not love you no matter what you do? You can read Carol Kaufmann’s 97 Ways to Make a Cat Like You. Coping with the loss of a loved one? There’s a book called Grieving: A Beginners Guide by Jerusha Hull McCormack. Struggling with stressful challenges in your life? You can turn to Inward by Yung Pueblo just as I did.

However, self-help messages aren’t just limited to literature. There are an overwhelming number of podcasts, TV shows, seminars, and social media platforms dedicated to self-improvement. American society is flooded with these self-help outlets, and the industry is flourishing. In the late 1990s, self-help was “said to constitute a $2.48-billion-a-year industry” (McGee 11). In 2008, Marketdata Enterprises, an independent research company, found that “Americans spent $11 billion on self-improvement books, CDs, seminars, coaching and stress-management programs” (Lindner). The success of this industry seems to show that I’m not the only one who’s turned to self-help for guidance. In a way, that’s reassuring―it’s normal for people to struggle and to seek help from this culture. On the other hand, this industry is expanding exponentially. Perhaps, it was only a matter of time before self-help found me, not the other way around.

With all this commentary about economics and expanding markets, I can’t help wondering if self-help is merely a fad. It could be a startup industry preying on people in search of answers, and I’m one of the clueless. This perspective on self-help makes me the most uncomfortable. It’s bad enough questioning whether self-help made me a narcissist. But it’s unbearable thinking the industry took advantage of my vulnerability and overwhelming need for hope. However, the fact there’s a history of self-help subdues some of these fears. Self-help isn’t a modern money-making phenomenon; self-help is human nature.

While the origins of self-help literature differ from historian to historian, there seems to be a consensus that Greek philosophers were some of the first self-help gurus. As Greek thinkers like Socrates never seemed to stop talking, I’m not surprised they were the first to stumble upon self-help. The Stoics in particular are linked to self-help culture. They praised virtue, nature, free will, and human agency (Icne). In the 1500s, ideas of self-help were found in a new literary genre called mirrors for princes. These books provided advice to political leaders and elites (Icne). Niccolo Machiavelli’s, The Prince, is a prime example. If that infamous book title doesn’t ring a bell, I’m sure the phrase “ends justifies the means” will (Icne). Benjamin Franklin’s autobiography advanced self-help culture into the 18th century. His writings perpetuated ideals of the self-made man and the American Dream (Nehring 20). It is Samuel Smiles, however, who published Self Help in 1859. His book “not only coined the name of the genre,” but it was a precursor to the industry’s future success (Icne). Second only to the Bible, Self Help dominated international markets (Icne). In the 19th century came Napoleon Hill’s How to Sell Your Way Through Life and Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People (Nehring 23). Self-help culture seems to be rooted in human history. Just as societies have undergone transformations, it appears this industry has as well.

In a way, it makes sense that self-help ideas have existed since ancient times. To me it seems like the struggle to find happiness is a timeless, universal, and utterly human problem. Hundreds of thinkers have attempted to tackle these questions, right? And each century develops its own unique views. After all, if I gave Benjamin Franklin my copy of Inward, the themes would be foreign to him. He would ask me why the writing was so poetic and obscure. He probably wouldn’t understand the themes of self-love and retreating inwards to avoid external chaos. Instead, Franklin might scold me for undervaluing the traits of industry and ambition. He would urge me instead to take the reins of my life and improve it using will power. So, here’s another question: how can there be such a divide between the ways Benjamin Franklin and I think about our lives? The struggle to find fulfillment afflicts all humans regardless of which century they’re from. So, shouldn’t messages of self-help be able to transcend time as well?

According to sociologist Dr. Micki McGee, Benjamin Franklin and his era believed in the self-made man. Basically, if people work hard enough, they can achieve any goal. Success was within the grasp of any (white male) willing to work for it. As McGee states, with this optimistic mindset “failure must necessarily be individual shortcomings” (13). As August of 2018 shattered my life, the 20th century decimated the self-made man. The 1970s was “the beginning of a period of declining wages and increased competition in the labor market (50). Downsizing of management positions, offshoring, and general job insecurity caused societal distress (15). On top of this, more and more women joined the workforce. The influx of female workers increased job competition, and—long overdue—men couldn’t rely on women to be solely responsible for the domestic sphere (14). People began to see a dystopian world that was cut-throat and unwelcoming with “few opportunities for self-fulfillment” (Nehring 85). If reality was unjust and cruel, not everyone could be a self-made man, and a self-made woman was out of the question. In response to this unforgiving world, people most likely turned inward to protect themselves. Thus, self-help adopted a new, far less optimistic goal: simple survival (McGee 50).

It looks like self-help literature hasn’t changed much since the 1970s. I mean my favorite self-help book is actually named Inward, and it was published in 2017! Moreover, it focuses on the individual to cope with life’s challenges. There can’t be a more perfect example of this long-lasting shift in self-help thought. While the focus on the individual lives on, the self-help industry must have changed in some ways. There has to be a cause for the market to swell in the 2000s, right? (Lindner).

Well, maybe self-help culture spread because of the Internet. I’m not sure. But maybe it’s because of millennials. Anytime I walk into an Urban Outfitters, there’s a section of the store specifically dedicated to self-help books. In fact, I’ve even seen a few copies of Yung Pueblo’s book there. This phenomenon isn’t even unique to Urban Outfitters. Other well-known stores like Francesca’s do the same thing. I’ve also noticed more and more aesthetic pictures of self-help books popping up on my social media feed. Just add a filter, light candles in the background, and make sure there is a perfectly placed coffee cup nearby. People my age seem happy to expose their reliance on self-help to the world. In fact, it’s sort of the fashion. Apparently, Pew Research Center has also taken note of this trend. In 2015, they found that millennials “spend twice as much as boomers on self-care essentials such as workout regimens, diet plans, life coaching, therapy and apps to improve their personal well-being” (Silva). America’s youth, its rising professionals, are probably the most conscientious about their personal well-being. I guess the future should be extremely bright with emotionally mature individuals to lead it, right?

But, why can’t I actually believe this? Yes, my peers buy self-help books, but perhaps it’s just for the nice photo. And yes, my peers talk about self-help on social media, but it feels more like a trend than a substantial movement. Arwa Mahdawi, from The Guardian, argues that the millennial obsession with self-care has less to do with personal development, and more to do with indulging ourselves. In fact, she names my generation, “Generation treat yo’self” (Mahdawi). That name’s a little harsh, but honestly, I understand where she’s coming from. In this day and age, self-help can mean any number of things like drinking a green smoothie, taking a bubble bath, or going to yoga class. Better yet, complete the self-care process by posting a picture of yourself, add #selfcare, and let all your followers know about your healthy habits (Mahdawi). In some ways, self-help culture seems shallow and unmeaningful. Mahdawi believes this is because self-help has been consumerized. There are self-care kits with everything from stuffed animals to bath bombs (Silva). But would these trivial objects have helped me as my father went through treatment? Did I really just need ten dollars and a nice bath to make cancer less frightening? I’m realizing this industry convinces people that they need kits, gym memberships, or green smoothies to be happy. And you can’t just stop there! There are always new life-changing workout regimens or kombucha teas to try. It’s for this reason that Dr. Micki McGee calls the self-help industry “self-perpetuating and self-serving” (18). The industry, through its literature and hashtags, almost seems like it wants people to feel inadequate. If people feel inadequate, they will probably continue to buy everything the market has to offer (18).

What’s even more alarming is that psychologists have joined in on the consumer self-help industry too! Psychology Today, a well-known website and magazine, “advertises anti-depressants and weight-loss drinks side by side” (Madsen 3). Serious medication is then put on the same scale as sham smoothies. Science seems to be swept up by this consumerist craze through media too. I often see self-help shows like Dr. Phil on TV. And apparently, psychologists are also hired “by the TV networks to select the right participants” for reality shows (77). Psychologists don’t just have job opportunities on the screen, but they popularize their “clinical experience in the media and in books categorized as popular psychology and self-help literature” (70). Self-help culture appears to be extremely beneficial to these scientists, and this very success makes me doubt their motives. Since the industry gives psychologists fame and money, their goal might be to have people come back again and again for advice: it’s a disservice to the status and bank accounts of these scientists if they actually solve issues. Now, even if I find a self-help book written by a certified psychologist, I’m not even sure I can trust the messages.

So once more, I’m brought back to my question as to whether self-help harms or hurts. The possibility that I’m just one of many clueless consumers disturbs me yet again. I think the reason this idea bothers me so much is because I really believe the messages in Inward. These messages give me strength and a framework to see the world. Suddenly, it feels like I’m being told these messages are a lie, a trick even, to steal my money. In a way, it’s like finding out you’ve been robbed by the contractor who made your house.

There’s another equally terrifying concept about self-help. Some people, such as Arwa Mahdawi, argue that this turn inward makes people disconnected. Instead of dealing with problems, self-help is an escape from real issues. It discourages action. For the privileged, self-help appears to be pure indulgence with no constructive consequences (Mahdawi). However, some people validate their actions with this airplane analogy: You must put on your own air mask before helping your neighbor. Thus, the basic idea is help yourself in order to help others. Danish psychologist, Svend Brinkmann, criticizes this analogy. He claims that if everyone breathes frantically into their own air masks, no one will get up to see why the plane’s going down (Skipper). Brinkmann believes that if people only cope with their personal problems, then no one will try to solve the larger problems of society.

Naturally, this metaphor makes me question my own experience with self-help. But on this point, I have to disagree. I understand Brinkmann and Mahdawi’s case that an internal focus is dangerous to activism. And I understand that selfishness and inaction are dangerous to a nation. However, for me, turning to self-help wasn’t an attempt to hide from my problems. I turned to self-help in order manage the dreary realities of my life. Inward gave me coping mechanisms that made me feel just a little bit stronger. So, when my sister cried when she saw my withering dad, I wouldn’t shed a tear. Instead, when my family’s tidy order collapsed into chaos, I took up the household chores that were left forgotten. I drove my dad to treatments. I listened to my mom’s frustrations and fears. I helped my sister with her schoolwork. I was able to be strong for my family during our darkest time. Without Inward, there’s no way I could have done that. Honestly, I could have become depressed―another burden to my mom and another reason to cry for my sister.

Evidently, self-help is complicated. A few arguments have certainly made me question aspects of this culture. First of all, self-help appears to present certain dangers to society. The industry can trap consumers into meaningless non-stop spending. Moreover, it holds the risk of squelching activist movements and promoting complacency. Yet, I have to believe there are merits to self-help. I’ve experienced the benefits myself with Inward, and I’m sure someone else out of the millions of people who read this literature can do the same. But perhaps, I can’t merely categorize self-help as simply good or bad. The self-help industry is so vast and encompasses a variety of products. Maybe it is more important to know the difference between self-help that is trivial and truly meaningful. Bath bombs, green smoothies, and face masks are examples of this first group. They are easy to purchase and easy to use, but anyone who has experienced grief knows that these items provide fleeting comfort. Trivial self-help seems to require cash, but no thought. Inward, on the other hand, was a challenge. Not only did I invest time reading the book, but I grappled with Yung Pueblo’s words and themes. I reflected upon every poem, and it is a continuous struggle to implement this perspective in my life. I’d love to buy a self-help kit to fix my troubles, but I know this purchase would be meaningless and empty.

So, while I understand the clear downsides of self-help culture, I think there is a potential to avoid its pitfalls and gain its benefits. By purchasing self-help products that inspire us to reflect about our lives and constantly work towards happiness, perhaps people can experience the positives of self-help. After all, life’s challenges are difficult, so it makes sense that combating these issues would be difficult as well. At the end of the day, there are no clear answers as to the merits of self-help. I have my own hypothesis, yet I certainly do not know the solutions to every issue this industry bears. However, I can say this with absolute certainty: I’m thankful for the impact Inward had on my life.

Works Cited