“Laundry Day and Other Unexpected Forms of Therapy”

I used to think laundry was the worst part of being an adult. It’s never-ending. It multiplies when you’re not looking. And socks? Socks vanish like they owe someone money.

But lately, I’ve come to believe that laundry—yes, laundry—is my most honest, most humbling therapist.

Let me explain.

It all started when I hit a low point: I had no clean underwear, no matching socks, and I was one questionable t-shirt away from wearing a towel cape to the grocery store. I had reached the point of no return. I stood in front of the overloaded hamper, sighed dramatically, and accepted my fate.

Laundry day.

I dragged my laundry basket like it was a burden and a best friend all in one. It squeaked. I squeaked. We were both tired.

As I sorted through the mountain of fabric, something strange happened.

I started thinking.

About everything.

About how certain shirts remind me of certain days. About how one hoodie had hugged me through heartbreak. About how that weird pair of pajama pants with cartoon whales is still somehow the most comforting item I own.

The laundry wasn’t just laundry. It was life, in cotton and polyester.

And that’s when it hit me: laundry is like emotional archaeology. Every piece of clothing holds a little history. A moment. A version of you.

I found the shirt I wore to a job interview I didn’t get—but tried anyway.

The dress I danced in at my cousin’s wedding, barefoot and joyful.

The hoodie I wore for three days straight during a sad movie binge that involved popcorn, tears, and zero shame.

Each item had a story. And I was folding memories into neat little rectangles.

There’s something meditative about it—sorting, washing, drying, folding.

You can’t rush it.

You can’t scroll through it.

You’re just… present.

With the hum of the machine.

With the heat of the dryer.

With your thoughts, and the occasional unmatched sock asking, “Where’s my partner?”

(Answer: probably on vacation in Narnia.)

By the time I pulled out my favorite hoodie—warm, faded, and slightly too big—I felt a strange sense of peace.

And that’s when I realized:

Laundry is therapy in disguise.

It’s not glamorous. It doesn’t involve scented candles or deep conversations with a stranger in a chair. But it cleans you, in its own quiet way.

It tells you:

Hey, you’re worth the effort.

You deserve fresh starts—even in the form of socks that smell like lavender.

You can be messy, and still come out warm and clean.

Because isn’t that what life is?

A cycle of wearing, staining, shedding, cleaning, and repeating.

We go out into the world.

We pick up stuff—dust, spills, emotions, weird energy.

We come home heavy, stained, and sometimes wrinkled.

And then we wash.

And fold.

And start again.

There’s poetry in that.

A fresh shirt can’t fix a broken heart—but it helps.

Clean pajamas won’t solve your problems—but they’ll hold you through them.

Folding your laundry is a reminder: You’re showing up for yourself, one sock at a time.

Even when you don’t feel like it.

Especially when you don’t feel like it.

Some of my best thinking happens when I’m stuffing towels into the machine.

Some of my biggest life decisions have been made over piles of unfolded laundry.

And okay, sometimes I just sit on the floor, wrapped in a warm sheet fresh out of the dryer, and pretend it’s a hug from the universe.

Because it kind of is.

So here’s what I’m saying:

If you’re having a rough week…

If your thoughts feel tangled…

If your heart feels like a laundry basket of wrinkled emotions…

Do a load of laundry.

Not because it’s a task, but because it’s a tiny act of healing.

Sort your colors.

Let the washer rumble while you breathe.

Fold slowly.

Marvel at the weird joy of matching socks.

And if you find yourself crying into a towel because that’s the kind of week it’s been—know that even towels need to be wrung out sometimes.

You’re not broken.

You’re just in the wash cycle.

Clean days are coming.