I didn’t plan to clean that day.
I was tired — not just in body, but in spirit.
The kind of tired that makes you want to disappear under your blanket and tell the world, “not today.”

But something inside me whispered: “Start with one corner.”

So I did.

I picked up one shirt.
Wiped down one shelf.
Swept one section of the floor.
And slowly, something began to shift — not just around me, but within me.

I wasn’t just cleaning.
I was reclaiming.

Every item I folded felt like a piece of myself being honored again.
Every cleared space became proof that I still had control — not over the world, but over how I choose to show up in it.

I wasn’t lazy. I was grieving.
I wasn’t broken. I was becoming.

And by the time I sat down to eat that small bowl of salad,
I realized: this wasn’t just a reset for my space.
It was a soft rebellion.
A quiet reminder that healing doesn’t always look like crying or therapy or writing poems.

Sometimes, healing looks like a clean room.
A bowl of something healthy.
And a heart saying: I showed up today.

— M.j.P