Yhem Speaks

Some of the best reflections happen in the most unexpected places. For me, one of such places is my laundry room. I used to have a strict timetable for laundry; every Saturday with no excuses. These days I hardly keep up with that schedule anymore.

Now, I try to wash at least twice a week instead of waiting for the weekend to tackle the whole pile. It’s not perfect, but it works. Breaking it down into smaller, manageable chunks makes the chore feel less overwhelming.

Some of my small habits have turned to my useful tricks that always make a big difference while doing the laundry. I turn clothes inside out before putting them into the washing machine; it keeps colors from fading and prevents prints or delicate fabrics from getting damaged. Another trick I use to avoid wrinkles is to shake each piece out gently before hanging it on the drying rack. It seems simple, but it really helps reduce the extra ironing later. Sometimes I even lightly tug on sleeves and pant legs to make sure they hang straight while drying.

Of course, not everything always goes according to plan. There are days when I forget some clothes in the washing machine and have to run it through again, or when colors sneak into the wrong load despite my best efforts. And yes, there are days when I just dump the laundry basket on a chair, promising myself I’ll fold it later… and then it sits there for a few hours. But even in those moments, there is a process taking place.

One random day, I was standing over a pile of clothes, sorting shirts and socks, folding towels, pairing the lonely ones that somehow always lose their partners. It was the kind of chore that usually runs on autopilot, but that day, something slowed me down.

As I folded each piece, I noticed there was a pattern. Not in the fabric or the colors, but in the choices I’d made over time. The T-shirt I wore that makes me comfortable. The dress I saved for church. The sweater I reach for every time it gets cold. Each piece had a story stitched into it, a rhythm that matched different versions of me.

It made me realize how much of our lives hide in the ordinary. In what we repeat without thinking. The clothes we wear aren’t just random choices; they tell the story of our moods, our comfort zones, even the people we once were.

There’s that one shirt I can’t throw away, even though it’s seen better days. It reminds me of a time I was braver; the day I moved into a new city, unsure of everything but still pretending I knew what I was doing. Then there’s the floral dress I wore once to a wedding recently; it still carries the faint scent of the perfume I wore that day, tucked between the folds like a memory that refuses to fade.

The pile in front of me suddenly didn’t look like laundry anymore. It looked like a timeline with a scattered map of emotions and seasons where between folding towels and sorting socks, you can find traces of who you were, who you’ve become, and who you might become next.

That day, I didn’t rush to finish the laundry. I took my time, letting each piece remind me of a moment I’d almost forgotten. By the time I was done, I wasn’t just looking at clean clothes but chapters.

We often say life moves too fast, but sometimes, all it takes is to notice the rhythm by standing over a pile of clothes on an ordinary afternoon.

With stories always,

Yhem 💞