Me, My Life & Why Part 20

Part 20

It started with socks.

A single pile in the corner.

One of those piles that’s not really dirty, just… lost momentum.

I picked them up with the vague intention of being a functional adult, then noticed a dusty coaster on the nightstand. Then I opened the drawer. Then I found the junk underneath the mess. You know how it is.

I wasn’t cleaning anymore. I was excavating.

Ten minutes in, I found an old planner titled 2021: The Year of Me, which was funny, because I remember 2021 being more The Year of Questionable Decisions and Crying into Pasta.

Still, I flipped it open.

Inside:

“Daily Goals!” (exclamation mark included)

“Gratitude: Waking up”

“Don’t scroll til 10am!” (underlined three times)

“Be your best self” (what does that even mean??)

At the back was a sticky note that read:

“Consistency = freedom.”

I sat on the floor and stared at it.

Because once, I believed that.

Once, I truly thought that if I could just tick enough boxes, drink enough water, and stick to enough morning routines, I would finally become a Real Person. One of those efficient ones who send thank-you notes and remember to buy bin bags before running out.

I don’t know if that belief came from Pinterest or capitalism or internalised perfectionism dressed in pastel fonts, probably all three, but it had me by the throat for years.

So, naturally, I kept cleaning.

Next came the bookshelf. Beneath a stack of half-read memoirs, I found Atomic Habits. A relic of my “I will fix myself through colour-coded systems” phase.

Post-it inside: “Start Monday. No excuses.”

It had survived three house moves. Unread. Unquestioned.

I held it in my hands like an archaeologist discovering an old weapon I used to hurt myself with.

I threw it out.

Not because the book is bad. It’s probably very helpful. But because I had once used its unopened presence to beat myself up for not being “ready.”

I dusted. I vacuumed. I cleaned the bathroom mirror until my own face startled me. There I was: messy bun, hoodie, weird stain on my sleeve. Alive.

And something occurred to me.

For years, I’d treated my environment like a reflection of my worth. A messy room meant a messy life meant a messy me. I had internalised that deeply.

But maybe, just maybe, the mess wasn’t proof of failure. Maybe it was proof of existence.

I paused mid-scrub and laughed.

Because I was finally cleaning not because I hated myself, but because I liked how the light looked on a clear surface. Because my body wanted to move. Because wiping down shelves was strangely meditative. No agenda. No optimisation hack. Just soap and silence.

And then, because no spiral is ever just one layer deep, I thought about capitalism.

Specifically: the way it sells us “organisation” like it’s moral.

Like there’s virtue in aesthetic pantries and five-step routines and knowing where your batteries are.

Like being “together” makes you better.

And yet, somehow, we’re all exhausted.

I finished the floor. Lit a candle I forgot I owned. Sat cross-legged in the middle of the room with a half-warm cup of tea.

And for the first time in ages, I felt like the space around me matched the space inside me: weird, inconsistent, mostly okay.

No checklist. No reward. Just stillness.

Later that night, I opened a new page in a notebook, not to track progress, not to plan my week, just to write down how I felt.

This is what it said:

“I cleaned my room today.

And it didn’t fix me.

And it didn’t need to.

And that, in itself, might be the most radical act of rebellion I’ve ever pulled off.