a-robe-ics: the gentle workout of comfort

This morning, as I sit wrapped in my bathrobe sipping tea in the quiet, I am reminded of just how much I love this simple garment. I have a robe for every season: thick fleece for winter, light cotton for summer, a plush midweight for fall. Each one offers something different in warmth, texture, and softness, but they all anchor me in the same thing: comfort.

Back in college, a friend and I came up with something we called a-robe-ics. It was our tongue-in-cheek version of aerobics. We had grown up with Jane Fonda in her neon leotards and Suzanne Somers with her glossy workout routines, all promising that with enough sweat and sculpting we could be better, tighter, stronger. So of course, in our own coming of age way, we invented the opposite. Our routine required no effort at all. The only choreography was wearing your robe. Instead of lunges and crunches, we were lounging and laughing. Instead of striving, we were softening.

This was 1998/1999, long before self-care became a hashtag. We did not know it then, but we were a little ahead of our time. What looked like laziness was actually radical rest. What sounded like a joke was our bodies reaching for nervous system regulation.

We thought it was funny, but it was also quietly rebellious. It said you do not have to perform to be enough. You do not have to hustle to earn comfort. Looking back now, I see a-robe-ics as one of my earliest nervous system practices. It gave me permission to pause, to soften, and to be held by something as simple as fabric against my skin.

Comfort is not indulgence. True comfort is regulation. It is choosing softness over striving and presence over performance.

But here is the question I often ask myself and my clients: Is the thing bringing you comfort truly soothing, or is it only numbing? Food, scrolling, research rabbit holes, or leaning too heavily on others can bring temporary relief, but when they are our only doorway to comfort, we end up more dysregulated when those doors close. True comfort steadies us whether we are alone or with others.

For me, comfort begins with the senses. The fleece of my robe across my shoulders, the weight of its belt tied snug around my waist, the smell of coffee brewing or banana bread in the oven, the cool air that greets me when I open the door on a fall morning. Comfort might come through sound like soft music playing or my children’s laughter, or through touch like placing my hands gently on my heart and belly, offering myself a nervous system hug. Sometimes it is co-regulating with a pet, asking my partner for an embrace, or booking a facial simply because having my face held feels like being tenderly mothered.

During the pandemic, I began offering online bathrobe sessions, short live chats where I showed up unpolished, in my robe, to ask how others were coping. It felt radical to be seen without performance, to let people in on the messiness, to normalize the need for comfort. Those mornings affirmed that comfort is not frivolous. It is a lifeline.

So today, I invite you into your own round of a-robe-ics. Think of it as the gentlest workout you will ever do. The uniform is fleece, the soundtrack is silence or soft laughter, and the goal is not a tighter core but a well tended nervous system.

If you are not sure where to start, here are a few ways to orient toward comfort and self-soothing:

• Touch: Wrap yourself in something soft, place your hands on your heart and belly, or try a weighted or heated blanket.

• Smell: Light a favorite candle, bake something familiar, or step outside and notice the air.

• Sight: Soften the lights, gaze at something beautiful, or create a small corner that feels cozy and safe.

• Sound: Play gentle music, listen to nature, or simply notice the quiet.

• Connection: Snuggle a pet, ask for a hug, or practice offering yourself the comfort you might usually seek from another.

  
  

Notice what genuinely settles you, not just what distracts you. These small practices can become anchors, helping your nervous system find steadiness in daily life. And maybe, just maybe, we were onto something back in 1999. What started as a joke between two college girls in their bathrobes has become a lifelong practice. Radical rest. Nervous system nourishment. The reminder that sometimes the most forward thinking thing you can do is return to comfort, right here, right now.