I don’t know about you, but I’ve always thought washing machines lie.
They confidently announce there’s 12 minutes remaining, and somehow, 12 minutes later, there are still 8 minutes remaining. It’s a bit like the mystery of the missing sock. Two socks go in, one comes out. Nobody questions it. We simply accept it as one of life’s great unsolved mysteries.
Recently, my washing machine died and this had a surprising effect on my routine.
My machine wasn’t fancy. It didn’t connect to Wi-Fi, talk to my phone, or send notifications I didn’t ask for. It simply washed clothes and occasionally lied about how long it had left to go. What surprised me wasn’t the inconvenience of being without it. It was the absence of a rhythm I’d never consciously noticed before.
For years, I’d been measuring chunks of my day against a wash cycle. Put a load on, water the garden. Hang the washing out, make lunch. Start another cycle, answer a few emails. My washing machine had quietly become a marker of time, a small metronome ticking away in the background of daily life.
But this time, it wasn’t really about the washing, it was about routine.
Without it, I found myself glancing at the clock far more often than usual, waiting, estimating and wondering what I should be doing next. The irony wasn’t lost on me. This machine I barely thought about had somehow become part of the structure of my day. It also had me reflecting on all the small, ordinary tasks we rarely give much thought to, like washing clothes, cooking dinner or watering the plants. None of them are particularly glamorous, yet together they create a rhythm that quietly holds life together.
On difficult days, these simple acts often become anchors. They keep us connected to the present moment. The task in front of us becomes the only thing that matters: clean your teeth, make the bed, chop the vegetables for dinner. One small thing at a time.
This week, I picked up a minor eye injury. Nothing serious, but enough to force me to do less, rest more, and enjoy the pirate eye patch! For those who know me well, you’ll understand that doing less is not a skill I’ve particularly mastered. Rest and I have always had a slightly complicated relationship. For years, slowing down came with a sense of guilt, and truthfully, I’m rather tired of carrying it. I’ve spent most of my life moving, dancing, teaching, creating, and always ‘doing’. Sitting still has never come naturally to me, so between the broken washing machine and the eye injury, life seemed to be staging some sort of coordinated intervention.
Perhaps the universe wasn’t trying to stop me. Maybe it was trying to get my attention.
I believe this is partly because I’m approaching 50. The things I could power through in my 30’s no longer appeal in quite the same way. Not because I can’t do them, but because I no longer want to live at that pace. These days, I find the best things emerge when they’re given space. Creative ideas flourish, relationships deepen, and even healing seems to flow more easily. The old version of me measured success by how much I could fit into a day or achieve before bedtime. These days, I’m learning to live differently and understanding that not everything needs to be done in a rush, or solved immediately.
Over the past few weeks, I’ve enjoyed much slower mornings. I am relishing not having to be somewhere at 9am. I deeply enjoy having space to sit with my morning tea, write, think and allow ideas to develop naturally rather than forcing them into existence.
To some people, that might sound selfish.
Over time, I have come to realise that self-development often looks selfish from the outside. Choosing rest. Creating space. Allowing yourself a slower rhythm of life. In a culture that celebrates being busy, these choices can easily be misunderstood. Yet there is a world of difference between being self-centred and taking care of yourself. The older I get, the more I see that one depletes us, while the other allows us to show up more fully for life. Perhaps the broken washing machine and the enforced pause weren’t inconveniences at all. Perhaps they were simply reminders that not everything needs rushing, and not every empty space needs filling.
As I sign off here there is one mystery that remains beyond human understanding – Why do I seem to own 13 odd socks and not a single matching pair?! Answers on a postcard please!!
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