I Fold My Fears Like Laundry

Every Sunday morning, while the world feels still and ordinary, I sit cross-legged on the floor with a mental basket brimming over. My worries are wrinkled from being shoved into corners of my mind all week. Some are still damp — freshly soaked in today’s uncertainty. Others are stiff, forgotten in the back of the dryer, crusted with yesterday’s regrets.

It begins the same way each time.

I pull one fear out, hold it up to the light, and pretend it’s smaller than it is.

Here’s one: "You’re not enough."

It’s a familiar shirt — soft from wear. I smooth the edges, press it flat with trembling fingers. I tell myself if I fold it the right way, stack it just so, it won’t take up as much space in the drawer.

But it always does.

Next, I reach for "What if they leave?"

A pair of mismatched socks — one labeled "abandonment," the other "silence."

I roll them together anyway.

They always seem to find their way back into the basket, unpaired and louder than before.

I keep going.

“You’ll fail again.”

A heavy sweatshirt.

The kind that stretches at the sleeves, smells faintly of lost sleep and stale breath. I press it between my knees and try not to cry. It’s been in every load since I was twelve. I’ve tried to donate it to memory. Burn it with resolve. It won’t leave.

Some fears, I fold quickly.

The small ones, like:

“Did I say something stupid yesterday?”

“What if they think I’m too much?”

“What if I’m not enough?”

They crumple easier, but multiply like socks lost in a dryer. You think you’ve dealt with them, but then they show up behind your thoughts, hanging off your tongue mid-conversation.

Other fears don’t fold. They hang.

"You are broken."

"You are alone."

They dangle from hangers in my mental closet, casting long shadows on brighter days. I dust around them. Pretend they’re just coats for winter seasons. But even in summer, they whisper through the fabric.

And then, there are the delicate ones.

Fears I handle gently — too fragile to throw in with the rest:

The fear of being loved.

The fear of being seen.

The fear of healing — of what I’ll become without the pain I’ve grown familiar with.

I hand-wash those in silence. Lay them out under moonlight. Still, they stain.

Sometimes I try to get help.

I invite someone in, show them my basket.

They say, “It’s not that bad. Everyone has laundry.”

They mean well.

But some of us were born inside laundromats with no exit.

Some of us grew up sorting guilt from shame, folding rage into regret, ironing apologies we never owed.

I nod, close the door again.

It’s easier to do it alone.

Evenings are the hardest.

That’s when the pile grows, even if I’ve just folded everything.

It starts with a whisper:

"You forgot something."

"You missed a spot."

"You left something dirty."

And I remember — that one fear I shoved under the bed.

The one I thought wouldn’t come back.

"You don’t deserve peace."

That one never folds.

It just lingers in the air like static.

Crackling against my skin when I reach for comfort.

Still, I fold.

I keep folding.

Keep stacking.

Keep pretending that one day, I’ll open a drawer and find it empty — that everything will finally be clean.

But deep down, I know…

Mental laundry doesn’t stay done.

It’s a cycle:

Wash. Worry. Fold. Fear. Repeat.

Yet there’s a strange comfort in the ritual.

A silent strength in naming what I carry.

I may never be spotless.

But I am sorting.

I am surviving.

And for now,

that is enough.