Where There’s Life, There’s Mess
On Dirty Kitchens, Weedy Gardens, and the Sacredness of the Everyday
Breaking Up With Perfect
Over a decade ago, before my recovery journey began, you could have popped round to our house unannounced and found it impressively tidy. I had a low tolerance for clutter. Shoes lined up. Surfaces clear. Nothing out of place. It gave me a sense of control, of calm, or so I thought.
But that order came at a cost. Mainly: me. Keeping things perfect meant constant effort, and a low hum of frustration that the rest of my household didn’t share my standards. I was often exhausted, mistaking control for peace, tidiness for wellbeing. I thought if the outside looked okay, maybe the inside would follow.
Then life fell apart a bit - by which I mean depression and anxiety hit hard. And as my inner world unravelled, so did the outer one. The house got messy.
I remember one particularly distressing appointment with my therapist, sitting in her office, sobbing because I couldn’t find the strength even to wash the pots. My inner critic was brutal: “Failure. Lazy. Useless.”
She listened and then gently said:
“So what if your kitchen is untidy? It’s OK.”
That moment broke something in me. I realised how much shame I had been carrying about mess, both physical and emotional. I’d worked so hard to stay tidy on the outside while quietly falling apart inside. But the truth is: that kind of emotional “mess”—the ugly-crying, snotty, mascara-running kind, is not only normal, it’s necessary. It’s where healing begins.
And I’ve learned to treasure the friends who can sit with me in it. The ones who don’t look away, don’t try to fix it, and maybe hand me a tissue or mop up the spill. Some people still treat emotions like they’re something to be cleaned up or hidden away, sadness, grief, rage, vulnerability… all “untidy.” But real life is untidy. That’s what makes it real. That’s what makes it beautiful.
Gardens, Weeds, and O Level Biology
A few years ago, a great friend tried to help me grow some gardening skills. She wisely pointed out that my tidy tendencies might not serve me well in the garden. And she was right.
Her garden, unlike the pristine, Pinterest-type one, is gloriously alive. It is stunning: colour, texture, bees buzzing, plants blooming. Up close? There are weeds. Odd corners. Stray leaves. But that doesn’t diminish its beauty. It is beautiful because it’s alive.
It dawned on me recently: anything that’s living is rarely tidy.
This reminded me (strangely) of my O Level Biology. We learned a mnemonic for the characteristics of living things: movement, growth, reproduction... and excretion. In other words, if something’s alive, it will make a mess. Or as another friend put it:
“Where there’s life, there’s shit.”
Not the most elegant quote, but weirdly comforting. Because it’s true, anything alive produces waste. Babies can’t clean themselves. Pets have accidents. Even emotionally, the stuff we suppress eventually comes out, and it’s rarely in a polished, Insta-friendly format. But this is how we grow. We express, we release, we feel, we let go. And sometimes, we cry hard enough that the tears leave salt stains on our hoodies. And still, we're OK.
The Theology of Muck
My dad, a church minister, once preached a sermon that’s stuck with me for years. He was reflecting on the Christmas story, not the polished nativity version with glitter stars and tea towels, but the real one. The one where God showed up as a baby, born into straw and muck and manure.
He said (perhaps a bit daringly for the pulpit) that God chose to be born into our mess. The stable was literally stinking and dirty. And what does that say? That divinity is not afraid of dirt. The sacred doesn’t require spotless surroundings. That grace meets us not in the cleaned-up version of ourselves, but right in the middle of our mess.
That thought still brings me comfort on my not-so-tidy days.
So What Now?
These days, the mess still shows up. I don’t always welcome it, but I try not to let it shame me. When the house gets out of hand or I find myself spiralling into emotional clutter, I ask: What really matters right now?
Sometimes, the answer is: “Tidy the kitchen.”
Sometimes, it’s: “Go for a wander with Barney.”
And sometimes, it’s: “Call a friend and have a good cry.”
Because mess doesn’t mean failure, it means life is happening. It means things are growing. And yes, growing things need tending. But they also need freedom. They need space to be imperfect, a bit wild, sometimes even weedy.
And if you ask me, that kind of beauty is worth the mess.
PS: This gem of a quote sums it up nicely:
“We all get shit on our shoes. We've just got to realise it, so we don't track it into the house.”
– Karl Marlantes