Let’s talk about Dogville. Yes, that Lars Von Trier film with Nicole Kidman. The one that looks like a play, feels like a heavy philosophical essay, and lasts nearly three hours.
My therapist recommended it to me years ago. At first, I didn’t understand why. I fell asleep twice. It felt slow, almost unbearably heavy. The set is minimal, almost like chalk lines on a stage, and it forces you to focus on the people, on their gestures, their cruelty, their excuses.
Grace, the protagonist, arrives in this town while on the run. At first, she is welcomed. The townspeople open their doors, seemingly generous and kind. Then, she begins to “repay” them. Small tasks, small favors, until they stop being small. The tasks become demands. The gratitude becomes obligation. The welcome turns into quiet, creeping violence.
Grace endures it all: humiliation, emotional manipulation, physical abuse. And each time, she forgives. Each time, she stays. On the surface, it looks like an almost saint-like purity, a moral high ground so high it seems unreachable. We admire her, we pity her, we judge her, all at once.
But then there’s that final scene. The one that changes everything. When Grace finally reunites with her father, she makes a choice that feels like both an act of ultimate revenge and a final reclaiming of her own power. In that moment, we realize her forgiveness wasn’t pure at all, it was filled with arrogance. An arrogance that made her believe she was above everyone else, above consequences, above the mess of being human.
It made me think deeply about forgiveness, about boundaries, about the way we often confuse tolerance with love. About how we cling to people, projects, and situations far beyond what is healthy, convinced that enduring is the same as loving deeply.
For a long time, I thought that my ability to hold space for others, to understand, to forgive — endlessly — was a strength. A gift. Something noble. But the truth is, that kind of forgiveness without boundaries can become its own form of arrogance. It can become a quiet way of saying, I am above needing respect, above needing reciprocity.
Because sometimes, self-care doesn’t look like a soft bath or a comforting tea. Sometimes, it looks like saying no more. Like stepping away from what drains you. Like letting go of what once felt safe but no longer serves you.
Dogville is not an easy film. It is meant to disturb, to provoke, to leave you uncomfortable. It is a mirror to our deepest patterns of compliance, of the ways we let others mold us, of the ways we betray ourselves in the name of acceptance.
It took me years to understand why my therapist asked me to watch it. Now, I see it clearly. It was a lesson in boundaries, in pride disguised as kindness, in the dangerous illusion that unconditional forgiveness is always a virtue.
I am still learning to close doors. To choose myself before the story others want to write for me. To let some relationships end. To let some projects remain unfinished. To walk away, even when it feels like betrayal.
Because choosing yourself is never actually selfish. It’s the only way to make sure that the love and energy you give are true, sustainable, and aligned with who you really are.
So yes, sometimes self-care doesn’t feel like a gentle hug. Sometimes it feels like a slammed door echoing in an empty room. And that sound? That echo? It’s the beginning of coming home to yourself.
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