Learning to live with mess

Mess really makes me feel stressed out. Whether it's water dripping on the floor, little hands covered in paint or ice cream smeared onto clothes, my whole body tenses up and I feel anger surge through my body.

For as long as I can remember, mess has made me restless. As a child, I was the “clean freak,” the one who couldn’t relax until everything was in its place. I vacuumed, washed dishes, and organized my shelves over and over, chasing a feeling of calm that never lasted. Eventually, it consumed me - until I had to step back and admit that what looked like neatness was really a need for control.

By high school, I’d swung to the other extreme. I let things pile up, stopped caring, almost in rebellion against my old self. My family couldn’t believe it - I’d gone from obsessive to indifferent overnight.

But motherhood has brought that old version of me back. Now, when I see toys scattered or water spilled, I feel the same itch to clean - and sometimes, I shout, scream and yell before I can stop myself. The target has changed from my younger siblings to my children, but the struggle feels the same.

What helps - on good days - is reminding myself: Water can be wiped away. Paint can be washed off. Clothes are meant to get dirty. I repeat those words to myself almost like a prayer, taking deep breaths until the tightness goes away. Because mess can always be cleaned - but harsh words can’t always be undone.