Do You Need Time?

(an essay from About Life Choices & Potholes)

Do I need time? Absolutely.
But not the kind of time people talk about when they say, “Take a break,” or “Go meditate.”
The time I crave is quieter, more practical, and oddly specific—like a Sunday morning that smells faintly of detergent and wet fur.

For someone like me—wired on anxiety and caffeine, allergic to stillness—time isn’t about stopping. It’s about resetting.
And my reset button happens to be a washing machine.

Every Sunday, I start with the sheets. I strip the bed like I’m shedding another layer of myself—the one that’s tried too hard all week to appear fine. The washer hums in the background, rhythmic and reassuring. One small cycle of order in a world that rarely makes sense.

Then there’s Sauli, my Belgian Malinois—my furry embodiment of chaos. She doesn’t believe in schedules or sanity. If there were a washing machine big enough for her, I’d use it. But instead, I wrestle her into the bathroom, half-laughing, half-regretting, as she shakes mid-soap, turning me into a drenched participant in her rebellion.

And yet, that’s my favorite kind of time—the messy, wet, ridiculous kind that forces me to be here.
No deadlines. No pretending. Just a woman, her dog, and the illusion that water can rinse away everything heavy.

After Sauli’s done and sulking in her towel cocoon, I finally step into my own “washer”—the shower. It’s my private spin cycle. The steam fogs the mirror; the noise of life fades. For a few sacred minutes, there’s nothing but water and breath.

If you’d asked me a few years ago what I needed, I might’ve said more hours in a day.
Now? I think what I need is what Sunday gives me—just enough time to pause, reset, and laugh at the absurdity of trying to control anything.

In About Life Choices & Potholes, I write about these quiet revolutions—the small moments that sneak up and heal you when you least expect it.
Because time, I’ve realized, isn’t always measured in hours or days.
Sometimes, it’s just a single spin cycle, a clean bed, a wet dog, and a deep breath that says:

You’re still here.
You’re still trying.
And that’s enough.

🫧✨