What the Laundry Knows

Nestled in a corner, in a plush chair bathed in the early morning sun, I rocked lazily as I gazed down at a miracle.

Warm and wiggling.

Cheek to chest.

Nine months produced nine pounds of precious, tender joy that lay slumbering across my chest. A home still at rest. A Sunday morning that slinks across the sky.

I wanted to still time and catalog every detail of him. His shock of curls, the pucker of his lips, that unmistakable baby scent that only lasts a few short weeks. How quickly those quiet moments became the turbulence of a growing mental checklist. My room, bathed in morning warmth, bore the evidence of overwhelm and disorder. None of the gratitude I felt for finally welcoming my son home after three weeks in the NICU. None of the relief I felt after the six-hour surgery that saved his life.

Overwhelm has an interesting way of manifesting while one is drowning. An insidious whisper that infects so-called good days. A merciless squawk that sucks the hope out of bad days. The feeling that my house, my home, my life, was slowly coming undone.

Unzipped.

Pouring out and rushing through my fingers.

And there was nothing I could do to stop it.

During challenging seasons of life, there is a familiar quiet that settles into the home.

It is not peace.

It is not order.

It is survival.

A day that begins and ends in pajamas. A text that goes unanswered. All of the small rituals that make up a daily rhythm, collapse. And without fail, for me, the laundry pile begins to grow.

Not the ordinary accumulation from a busy week. I mean the relentless swelling. The multiplying of baskets. When one basket becomes two and two balloons to four. A swollen reminder.

I'm falling behind.

Why can't I keep up?

What's wrong with me?

For years, I interpreted my inability to "keep up" as a personal failing. As inadequacy. If only I were more disciplined, more organized, I could create the kind of home so frequently portrayed to parents.

To women.

To Black women.

THEE Strong Black Woman.

Who is she? Where did she come from? Is she in the room with us? Because I have questions…

The Strong Black Woman — a phrase single-handedly responsible for many silent battles both won and lost. If every other mother is shouldering the same heavy loads without complaint, surely the problem is me, right?

Wrong.

I am not a machine — and neither is my home.

The home is a breathing ecosystem that ebbs and flows with the seasons of life. It is shaped by the rhythms and circumstances of the people, the family, that occupy it. The household. When one member is grieving, overwhelmed, heartbroken or dealing with a particularly heavy season of life, the home responds. A change in the rhythm of the household is noticed.

The home notices.

The dishes notice.

The laundry notices.

In many ways, the laundry basket has become the barometer of my life. A barometer, by definition, measures atmospheric pressure and is used to forecast approaching weather. Long before a storm arises, the barometer registers subtle shifts in the air.

The laundry basket does much the same for me. It quietly records the shifts inside a family. The pile itself is neutral; it simply bears witness.

I can't count how many times I have reached for a burp cloth in a sleep-deprived haze only to discover that every last one was dirty. Picking the least dirty burp cloth from the overflowing basket felt like an indictment. Reusing the milk-crusted fabric became, in my mind, a manifestation of failure. An admission that I was falling short. That I was failing. That I, in fact, was not enough.

But what if the overflowing basket wasn't an indictment? What if, instead, it was treated as information? Instead of asking "Why can't I keep up?" we asked ourselves "What is this season asking of me?"

That's the thing about rhythms, we can always change the tempo. Perhaps this season requires a tempo change.

This shift has changed the way I think about my home. My household. I am less interested in perfection and the illusion of balance. Instead, I observe the ebb and flow, the shrink and swell, the tempo and rhythm of the current season of my life. Practicing sustainable rhythms that support my family's needs creates room for compassion instead of condemnation.

Some seasons allow for elaborate date nights, tables perfectly set, and extravagant birthday celebrations. Other seasons require Chinese takeout, paper plates, or making a wish on a candleless cake.

Wisdom lies in being intentional and knowing the difference.

The modern family is being crushed under an immense weight.

Two working parents.

Long commutes.

An endless list of demands.

And yet, there is the expectation of managing all of this while maintaining immaculate homes and appearing effortlessly composed. When did this become the norm?

Something has to give.

Often it's the wilted houseplant. The scattering of mail. The wrinkled pile of laundry.

I know this because I lived it. Overflowing baskets, not sure if the laundry is clean or dirty. (Don't even get me started on the dreaded "sniff test.") Washing the same load of laundry once, twice or more because it sat too long in the washing machine. Relegating freshly dried clothes to "the laundry chair" for days (or longer); postponing folding simply because I was running on empty. Looking around my home, surveying the wreckage and feeling defeated.

And I'm sure I'm not the only one.

The disorder in your home is not a measure of your worth. It is a measure of your capacity. Those are not the same thing. Your home does not need more hard work. More productivity hacks. More attempts at perfection.

Your home needs rhythms. Rhythms that support the life that you are actually living. Your home needs systems that are compassionate rather than condescending.

I founded Pearla because I believe that caring for a home, the household, matters deeply. But, that care was never meant to be carried alone.

I want to be clear, a Pearla home is not a perfect home; nor do we aspire to be. A Pearla home is a home where peace is cultivated with intention, where rhythms support the people who dwell within its walls, and where grace is extended generously; to our guests, our family and most importantly, to ourselves.