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I have always loved to clean. For a long time, it was an obsession—a way to control the world when everything else felt chaotic. I used to believe that if every corner was perfect, I would be safe: safe from the abuse in my marriage, safe from the malice of some coworkers, safe from the pain of betrayal, safe from a world that for a while -at least- didn’t seem so friendly. ​ Maybe a part of it stems from the 50 days I spent in the hospital with my premature baby. Not only have I learnt about the rigors of the NICU section (understandably so!), but I needed to make sure I am the healthy mom my daughter needed, so I would wash my hands and use disinfectants tens of times per day not only on myself, but on everything in the room I got to live in for almost two months… much to the desperation of my hospital roommates, who ended up saying I was right for making everything so neat all the time. But today, my relationship with tidying has changed. I still love neat, clean things, but I’ve moved from the point of obsession to the point of intention.

Now, when I polish a surface or organize a shelf, I am not just tidying a room; I am cleansing my soul. It’s a ritual of letting go. ​I am not perfect, and I no longer try to be. I am simply doing my best to create a space that breathes. This “normal” version of tidiness suits me—it’s how I healed. By ordering my outside world with love instead of fear, I finally found the frequency of my inner peace. I still can’t go to sleep until I’ve washed all the dishes in the sink and the kitchen looks good, but I’m not looking for perfection anymore. I’m looking for harmony. For resonance. The kind of space where a soul feels safe enough to finally be seen.

​P.S. Don’t worry, though —I’m not that far gone. I promise I won’t ask you to jump from carpet to carpet like a ballerina on the stage, after I’ve mopped the floor… or at least, I won’t make a big deal out of it! :))))

Catalina Oana