“Tidy”is not part of my identity
But neither is “messy”
It’s not that I like being untidy, or want to be. I actually would love to live in a tidy house (said every mum everywhere for the entire history of time). I love when things are clean and clear and where they belong. It makes me feel calm. Capable. Like the kind of person who puts their kids’ drink bottles in the dishwasher.
But the reality is: this season of life doesn’t leave much room for tidying. Between work, parenting, logistics, conversations, deadlines, dinner—there’s just not a lot of margin. And when a spare moment does appear, I’d honestly rather spend it reading.
Every now and then, I get a burst of motivation. I put things away, clear one or two of the surfaces, maybe even wipe them properly. It feels good. I think, “Maybe I am a tidy person deep down.” But then life does what life does, and the moment passes, and the clutter creeps back in. And I don’t always rush to fix it.
That’s the part that surprised me. I thought mess would really bother me. And sometimes it does, especially when I’m tired or stressed or trying to find the missing library books. But mostly… it doesn’t. I notice the mess. I just don’t always care enough to do something about it. Not right now. Not at the expense of rest, or connection, or a chapter that’s getting really good.
And maybe that tells me something. Maybe tidy just isn’t part of my identity—not in the deep, defining way I imagined it might be. I can admire neat spaces and efficient routines without building my self-worth around them. I can still be responsible, thoughtful, reliable. Just not especially tidy.
Maybe one day I’ll have more time. Maybe one day my house will reflect the version of me who folds washing straight away. But until then, I’m okay with this mess. It’s lived-in. It’s full of people and stories. And I can live with that.
How about you? Can you relax when your dresser looks like this?
