Latest / She Rose: Women Who Turned Pain Into Purpose / Finding Purpose in the Drawer No One Will Ever See | She Rose
Transcript
- There is a secret drawer in my kitchen that holds the weight of my entire week, and I think it might be holding you too. Let’s open it together, not to fix it, but just to see what we’ve been carrying. I want you to picture a drawer right now. Maybe it’s the junk drawer in your hallway, the one with the tangled cords and the half-empty pens that don’t work. Or maybe it’s deeper, tucked away behind the clean linens, the one you only touch when you’re looking for something specific and can’t find it. For years, I treated these spaces like apologies. I kept them hidden because they were messy, chaotic, and frankly, embarrassing. I thought if people could see inside my drawers, they’d see the chaos inside my head. But here is the truth I’m learning slowly: those drawers are archives. They are physical proof of who we were, who we are trying to become, and who we are still figuring out how to be. Today, I want to invite you to stop seeing organization as a chore or a performance for an audience. I want you to see it as an act of radical self-honesty. When you organize a space no one else will ever see, you are doing it for you. You are creating a sanctuary of order in a world that feels increasingly out of control. And there is something profoundly healing about that. Let’s sit with that for a second. We live in a culture that demands visibility. We post our cleanest corners on social media, we curate our most aesthetic shelves, and we perform productivity for likes and validation. But what happens when the camera turns off? What happens in the dark, quiet moments when you are alone with your stuff? That is where the real work happens. It’s easy to feel guilty about spending time on something that yields no external reward. You might hear that little voice in your head saying, 'Who cares if this drawer is neat? No one is going to notice.' But I am telling you, you will notice. Your nervous system will notice. Every time you reach into that drawer and pull out exactly what you need, without hesitation or frustration, you are sending a signal to your brain that says, 'I am safe. I am prepared. I have got this.' It seems small, doesn’t it? Just a neatly arranged collection of rubber bands and batteries. But it is actually a practice in trust. You are trusting yourself to keep things in their place. You are trusting yourself to maintain a baseline of calm. And when the rest of the day feels like a storm, that small pocket of order becomes an anchor. I remember a Tuesday last winter when I was feeling particularly scattered. My mind was racing, full of static and worry. I didn’t want to meditate. I didn’t want to journal. I just wanted to do something tangible. So, I went to the linen closet. Not the pretty shelf, but the bottom drawer where I keep the spare sheets and the old towels that had seen better days. I pulled everything out. Everything. I laid it on the floor like a landscape. And as I touched each item, I felt a surge of emotion. Some towels were from trips we took when we were happy. Others were gifts from people who aren’t in my life anymore. One pillowcase belonged to a child who used to sleep next to me, long before he moved out. Sorting through that drawer wasn’t just about fabric; it was about sorting through memory. I realized that organizing isn’t always about throwing things away. Sometimes it’s about acknowledging what’s there. I held onto the good memories and let go of the ones that no longer served me. The drawer didn’t look different, but I did. I felt lighter. There is a tenderness in this process. It’s okay to cry while you fold a fitted sheet. It’s okay to laugh at the weirdness of a gadget you bought three years ago and never used again. This is your space. You get to decide what stays and what goes. We often talk about big transformations. We want to change our careers, move across the country, or completely reinvent our lives overnight. But transformation rarely looks like a movie montage. It looks like folding laundry. It looks like aligning the spices on the shelf so they face forward. It looks like wiping down the inside of a cabinet until it smells like lemon and cleanliness. These acts are alchemical. They turn the leaden weight of stress into the gold of competence. When you organize a drawer, you are practicing the art of presence. You cannot multitask while you are carefully arranging items by height and color. You must be here. Now. With your hands. With the object in front of you. This is a form of meditation without the jargon. It grounds you in your body. It pulls you out of the anxiety of tomorrow and the regret of yesterday. You are simply dealing with the present moment, one utensil, one sock, one cable at a time. And in that presence, there is peace. It’s a quiet kind of power. You are asserting your agency over your immediate environment. You are saying, 'I have the ability to create beauty and function from chaos.' That belief spills over. It starts to influence how you handle other messes in your life. If you can tame this drawer, you can tackle the project at work. If you can make sense of this closet, you can make sense of this relationship. Now, I need to be careful here. I am not suggesting you aim for magazine-perfection. In fact, I’m warning against it. Perfection is rigid. It breaks under pressure. Organization should be flexible. It should breathe. When I organize my own drawers, I leave a little space. I don’t pack everything in tight because I know I’ll need room for new things. I accept that things will shift. A pen will roll away. A lid will get lost. That’s part of the rhythm. The goal isn’t a sterile museum exhibit; the goal is a living, breathing home that supports you. When you organize a drawer no one else will see, you are setting the standard for your own well-being. You are deciding that your comfort matters more than your image. You are choosing functionality over appearance. And that is a rebellious act in a world that profits from your confusion and your clutter. The crack is where the light gets in, but the structure keeps the roof from collapsing. You are building that structure, one small, invisible step at a time. Be gentle with yourself if you undo your work tomorrow. Life is messy. Messiness is human. The point isn’t to stay perfect; the point is to return to order when you can. It’s the returning that builds resilience. It’s the practice of coming back to center. So, here is my invitation to you today. Don’t do it for me. Don’t do it for your followers. Do it for the version of you who wakes up tired and needs to find her keys in ten seconds flat. Do it for the version of you who needs to feel a sense of control when everything else feels slippery. Pick one drawer. Just one. The one that bothers you the most, or the one you avoid entirely. Open it. Breathe. Look at what’s inside. Ask yourself: does this bring me joy? Does this serve me? Is this safe? If the answer is no, thank it for its service and let it go. If the answer is yes, give it a home. Arrange it with care. Notice how your shoulders drop when you close the drawer. Notice the silence. That silence is yours. It’s a gift you’ve given yourself. And as you walk away, carry that feeling with you. Carry that sense of capability. You are capable of creating order. You are capable of finding purpose in the mundane. You are capable of being at home in your own skin, even if that home has a few crooked shelves and mismatched socks. It’s okay to be a work in progress. Especially in the places no one sees. Take care of that drawer. Take care of yourself. I’ll be here next time, ready to listen. Until then, breathe deep. You’re doing better than you think.