Latest / Still Standing: Stories of Resilience, Survival & Strength / Why Washing Dishes By Hand Is A Radical Act Of Presence | Still Standing
Transcript
- There is a specific kind of silence that only exists when the water is running and the world has finally gone quiet enough to hear your own thoughts. I want you to picture that moment, just for a second, before we begin. I was thinking about this while standing at my kitchen sink last night. It wasn’t some grand epiphany that dropped from the sky. It was just Tuesday. Or maybe Wednesday. The days blur together a little when you’re trying to keep everything held together by sheer willpower and caffeine. My husband had already left for work. The kids were off to school, or in their rooms, or somewhere else entirely where I couldn’t see them. And there it was. The mountain of plates. The pots with dried-on oatmeal that had hardened into ceramic-like sculptures. The glasses with lipstick stains that looked like abstract art if you squinted hard enough. In my old life, in that high-pressure corporate job where I used to answer emails at 2 AM because I thought I was being dedicated, I would have viewed this as an obstacle. A delay. Something to be rushed through so I could get back to what I considered 'real' work. I would have loaded the dishwasher, hit start, and walked away, hoping to never think about it again. But something shifted in me after I burned out. After I realized that rushing through the small stuff doesn’t make the big stuff easier. So, I stopped using the machine. I started washing by hand. And honestly? At first, it felt like punishment. Like I was penalizing myself for having less time. But then, one evening, I actually paid attention. I turned on the tap. I adjusted the temperature until it was hot, but not scalding. I squirted the dish soap into the warm water and watched the bubbles form. They swirled together, popping and reforming, a tiny galaxy of foam right in front of me. I picked up a spoon. Just a simple, silver teaspoon. And I began to scrub. Take a breath with me. Can you feel it? That sudden shift in your shoulders? When you wash dishes by hand, you are forced into a rhythm. You cannot multitask effectively. You cannot scroll through your phone without dropping it in the suds. You cannot worry about the email you forgot to send or the text you need to reply to, because your hands are full of wet, soapy reality. You are anchored. The warmth of the water travels up your forearms, loosening knots in muscles you didn’t even realize were tight. It’s physical. It’s tactile. It demands your presence in a way that staring at a screen never does. For those ten minutes, there is no past. There is no future. There is only the plate, the sponge, and the rinse. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the concept of cost. Not financial cost, but emotional cost. In our last conversation, we talked about the courage it takes to wear your heart on your sleeve despite the cold wind of judgment. We discussed how vulnerability isn’t weakness, but it can feel dangerous. Today, I’m asking you a different question: What did that cost you? What is the cost of rushing? What is the cost of trying to optimize every single minute of your day? When I rush through chores, I pay a price. I pay it in anxiety. I pay it in a feeling of lingering clutter that follows me around the house, whispering that I haven’t done enough. I pay it in resentment toward the objects themselves, which seem to multiply just to mock my efficiency. But when I slow down? When I let the water run over my hands and listen to the clink of ceramic against glass? The cost drops to zero. There is no bill coming due. There is no performance review. There is just the act of cleaning, which becomes an act of care. Care for the vessel that holds my food. Care for the space where my family gathers. Care for myself, who is tired and needs a reminder that she is still here, still capable, still present. We live in a culture that is obsessed with the new, the shiny, the next big thing. We are taught that meaning is found in achievements, in promotions, in milestones. But I am learning that meaning is often hiding in the mundane. It’s hiding in the repetitive motion of wiping down the counter. It’s in the folding of laundry, the watering of plants, the sweeping of the porch. These are not trivial tasks. They are the stitches that hold the fabric of our daily lives together. Without them, everything unravels. Washing dishes by hand feels like a rebellion against this hurry-sick society. It feels like saying, 'No. I will not rush this. This matters.' It matters because it is real. It matters because I can see the dirt disappear. It matters because I am choosing to engage with my environment rather than escape from it. In a world that constantly pulls us outward, into the digital realm, into the worries of others, this small ritual pulls us inward. It grounds us. It reminds us that we are bodies, not just brains. We are creatures who need touch, temperature, and tangible results. And there is something deeply satisfying about looking at a clean, dry plate and knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that you made that happen. Let’s sit in that for a second. The idea of meditation usually brings to mind sitting cross-legged on a cushion, eyes closed, chanting or focusing on breath. And yes, that works for many people. But for me, and perhaps for you too, meditation looks like scrubbing a pan. It’s the repetition that soothes the nervous system. Up and down. Rinse. Dry. Repeat. It’s hypnotic in the best possible way. It allows your mind to wander safely. Sometimes, the best ideas come to me when I’m rinsing a coffee mug. Other times, I just cry. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the solitude. Maybe it’s just the release of holding it all in for too long. This practice has taught me that I don’t need to fix everything instantly. I don’t need to have all the answers right now. I just need to handle the next item. Wash the fork. Rinse the knife. Place it on the rack. Then the next one. Life is often like that. We feel overwhelmed by the entire pile of dishes—the debt, the grief, the career change, the relationship strain. But we don’t have to do it all at once. We just have to do one. Just one. And then another. Until the rack is empty. Until the sink is clear. Until we can breathe again. So, here is my invitation to you. It’s not a huge one. It’s not a promise to quit your job or move to a farm. It’s much smaller. Tonight, or tomorrow morning, try washing just three items by hand. Just three. Choose something simple. A bowl. A cup. A spoon. Turn off the music. Put the phone in the other room. Feel the water. Smell the soap. Watch the bubbles. Notice how your body responds. Do your shoulders drop? Does your breathing deepen? Do you feel a strange sense of peace settle over you? If you don’t feel it immediately, that’s okay too. Resilience isn’t about forcing yourself to enjoy every moment. It’s about showing up for yourself, even in the messy parts. Even in the wet, soapy parts. This is your chance to reclaim a small piece of your day. To remind yourself that you are more than your productivity. You are the person who tends to the home. Who cares for the tools. Who creates order from chaos. And there is profound dignity in that. There is strength in the gentle, repetitive motion of caring for the things you use every day. It is a quiet act of love. And love, however small, is always worth savoring. Thank you for spending this time with me. Thank you for letting me into your kitchen, your car, your quiet moments. I’ll be here tomorrow, ready to sit with you again. Until then, take care of yourself. Take care of your dishes. And remember, you are doing better than you think. I’m Marissa Davidson. This has been Still Standing. Goodnight, friend.