— on control, love, and letting things stay “done”
I used to think I was just particular.
Neat. Efficient. High-standard.
But really, I was raised on survival, not softness.
And when you’re raised that way, you don’t know how to receive help —
You know how to redo things quietly, alone, after everyone leaves the room.
So when my husband folds the laundry “wrong,”
I wait.
Smile.
Say thank you.
And then — when he’s gone — I refold every shirt.
Not out of spite.
Not to invalidate him.
But because something in me still believes:
“If I don’t fix it, I’ll regret it later.”
“If I don’t control it, it might unravel.”
“If I let someone care for me, they’ll get it wrong, and I’ll be left holding the mess.”
But beneath that?
I’m protecting his ego (which is generous).
I’m protecting my standards (which is honest).
I’m protecting my own anxiety (which is valid).
But I’m also protecting my illusion of control (which is costing me more than I want to admit).
Because every time I do it, even in private, my body rehearses:
“Help is not quite good enough. I still have to fix things alone.”
And that keeps me from experiencing:
Relief.
Gratitude.
Trust.
Actual co-regulation in my relationship.
Even if he never finds out, I never get to rest.
I’m only just realizing how much of my identity is wrapped in fixing, in smoothing, in quietly doing things over.
Even in love. Especially in love.
And now, I’m trying to stop.
Not because the folds matter.
But because the muscle memory does.
So the next time he folds the laundry and it’s slightly off, I want to leave it.
I want to sit with the discomfort.
I want to watch the part of me that wants to “fix” and not obey it.
I don’t know if I’ll succeed every time.
I don’t know what else I’ll find buried underneath this one small habit.
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