“Well, I’ve been afraid of changin’,
“Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac
‘Cause I built my life around you.
But time makes you bolder,
Children get older, I’m getting older too.”
My husband’s name is Allister. We live in Alaska and we sell apples.
Excitement—and a touch of tension—rose as my older sister and I took turns repeating this verse, swapping Alice for Betty, Allister for Bob, Alaska for Bahamas, and apples for bananas. Our voices grew louder with each fumble, as we raced to the end of the alphabet in playful competition.
Fuelled by our sisterly rivalry, this alphabet game became a welcome distraction from the seemingly endless pile of dishes I washed every night after dinner, while my sister dried. Like a well-oil assembly line, I dutifully rinsed the dinner plates and saucers, plunging them into the sink where the cutlery was already soaking in water no less than a bazillion degrees—but only if there was enough room! If space was tight, cups and glasses were always washed first—with my mom’s gentle reminder to handle them carefully. Although … the scar on my hand would serve as a constant reminder of what happens when you don’t, as well as my mom’s meticulous cleaning methods!
Once the dinnerware was out of the way and the sink cleared, I moved on to the large serving dishes, adding them one by one for maximum scrubbage. Only when every last dish was spotless did I tackle the greasy pots and pans, which, of course, were never dried with a dish towel—and never before the table was wiped down exactly three times!
While the latter would become my mom’s legacy, and a recurring and cherished joke at every family gathering, I doubt that she ever imagined how something as simple as washing dishes would become my superpower. As it turned out, I would go on to repeat this process approximately 18,421 times. Eighteen thousand. Four hundred. Twenty-one. My dry, cracked hands and brittle nails are a testament to this strange and neurotic fact.
Rinse. Scrub. Repeat.
It’s human nature to repeat things that bring us comfort, and this unassuming task would prove to be oddly therapeutic. Over the years, it gave me a sense of stability in my often unpredictable world—a small respite where I could declutter my mind with each dish, while refining my organization skills and mastering the art of turning chaos into order.
It’s easy to under-estimate the cumulative impact of such ordinary, repetitive actions like washing dishes every evening. And most of us rarely remember the experiences that do. It’s only as we grow older, when we begin to dream about what we want to achieve, that we realize how much those mundane routines have actually shaped us—either moving us closer to our goals or unknowingly holding us back.
The simple act of washing dishes—and wiping the table no less than three times—did more than restore physical order. It brought a sense of predictability when life felt uncertain and a feeling of accomplishment when I felt powerless. They weren’t just tasks; they were powerful tools for healing, bringing a steady rhythm of comfort and progress into my life.
An organized bed is an organized head.
Over time, I developed more routines that enabled Future Me to juggle the competing priorities of a busy life. A consistent morning routine, carefully organizing my time and ensuring ‘everything had its place,’ helped me manage the daily demands with pride and efficiency. These habits became my signature superpowers, cultivating the harmonious environment I had longed for as a young girl and ultimately fostering a sense of security and stability for my own family.
In the end, these habits became a quiet form of companionship. They provided comfort when I needed it and guided the future I was building—not only for myself, but for those who would follow. These simple, repeated actions became the rituals that gently carried me forward, turning dreams into reality. Just as my dad’s detailed lists ensured we were always prepared for our cottage trips, my own routines ensured I was prepared for life.