The first real stretch of Spring warmth hit last week, and I opened the windows, like I always do, when the air finally softens enough. For a minute, the whole house felt different, lighter. Like it could breathe again.
And I think that made it harder to ignore everything else.
I’d just deep cleaned my bedroom and workspace, and keeping those two spaces in decent shape has helped more than I can explain. Not because they’re perfect.
They’re not.
But they’ve felt manageable. Calm, even. Enough to remind me what it feels like when a room is not constantly asking something from me.
Which is probably why the kitchen hit me so hard.
It’s the one room in the house that carries the most shame for me. Boxes on the bench. Dishes on the counters. Things that belong somewhere else still sitting where they were dropped.
None of it’s new.
That’s part of what got to me, that it’s been building for months. I knew it was there. I just stopped really looking at it, worked around it, and adjusted to it. I let a kind of apathy settle in.
And then I opened the windows and saw it all again.
I’ve had politics on my mind. Kiddo’s schooling. Bills. The usual low-grade panic of too many things needing attention at once. Add in a solid week or two of executive dysfunction, and I’ve moved through most of last couple weeks feeling like I was only half here.
Still functioning, technically. Still doing things. Present and accounted for, but not in any way that felt rooted or intentional. More like skimming across the surface of my own life.
I think that’s what the clutter is, really.
It’s not just mess – it’s physical proof of overwhelm.
It’s what my life looks like when I’ve been present enough to keep things moving, but not present enough to really tend to them. And that’s hard for me to say out loud, because it feels shameful.
Especially in a home we put so much energy into, making her ours.
When things are orderly, I can cook without feeling stressed. I can sit and read without feeling guilty. I can game for enjoyment, not escape.
I can actually enjoy being here.
But when every surface is holding something unfinished, the whole house starts to feel crowded, and accusatory, like I’m living inside a running list of all the things I haven’t done.
Still, I try.
The bedroom has stayed clean. My workspace, too. Laundry has been current for the better part of a month, which is no small thing for me. I’m finally catching us up on bills, trying to get back into a better rhythm with money.
And I feel the want to write again.
None of that magically clears the kitchen or fixes the rest of the house, but it does remind me that effort doesn’t always look dramatic when you’re in the middle of it.
Sometimes it looks like two spaces that feel livable again, or like one open window and the uncomfortable clarity that comes with it.
Sometimes it looks like admitting that you have not been as present in your own life as you wanted to be, and that’s where I am right now.
Just here, noticing it.
Leave a Reply