I don’t know about you, but life feels a little out of control most days. Kids with sticky hands climbing the furniture, work emails that never stop, someone crying because their sock “feels weird” (not naming names, but you know who you are).
There’s a lot I can’t control.
I can’t control if my kids argue about who gets the “better” water cup. Seriously?! I can’t control the random things people say in passing that keep me up at night, replaying like a bad song on repeat. And I definitely can’t control the fact that my brain seems to keep a running “what if” list that no one asked for.
But you know what I can control? The way my house looks when I go to bed.
Now, let me be clear: my house does not look like a Pinterest board. There are usually socks hiding in the couch cushions and Legos lying in wait like medieval traps. But my kitchen? That’s my domain. At the end of the night, I give myself ten minutes, tops, to clean it up. And something magical happens.
Wiping down the counters isn’t just cleaning, it’s therapy. Washing the dishes? That’s me scrubbing off the stress of the day. Fun Fact: We don’t use a dishwasher. Putting away the trail of snack wrappers? That’s me saying, “Not today, chaos. Not today.”
By the time I click off the kitchen light, I feel like I’ve closed the book on all the things that made me anxious, irritated, or downright ready to move into a cabin alone in the woods.
And then morning comes.
There’s nothing like walking into a clean kitchen with a cup of coffee in hand, not being greeted by last night’s spaghetti dishes or a science experiment growing in a forgotten sippy cup. Instead, it feels like a little gift from my past self: “Here you go, you’re welcome. Have a fresh start.”
It doesn’t erase anxiety altogether, of course, but it gives me this tiny pocket of calm in a world that’s anything but calm.
So yeah, cleaning is how I manage my anxiety. It’s not glamorous, but it works. Ten minutes at the end of the day, and I get to wake up to peace instead of chaos. Honestly, it’s the cheapest form of therapy I’ve ever tried.
And as a bonus, my kids think the Cleaning Fairy visits every night. (Spoiler: it’s me. I am the Cleaning Fairy.)
