I didn’t start writing about laundry because I thought it was chic or glamorous. Or because I felt the world needed another tutorial on separating reds from whites. I started writing about laundry because I didn’t know what else to do.

“Back in the day”, I had a dream: my own laundromat, The Laundry Club. I still have the binder I carried everywhere — filled with pictures, spreadsheets, laminated plans, proof that I believed in something bigger than myself. It wasn’t just about owning an awesome laundromat. I wanted to create an institution that gave back. I dreamed of free wash days to serve the community, because I knew what it was like to struggle. I’ve seen the look on my own children’s faces when they wrapped themselves in clean, warm towels — that small but powerful dignity. I researched and believe to my core in what clean clothes can do for someone: how they lift people from poverty, impact childhood education, open doors to the workforce, and change how the world sees people. My laundromat wasn’t just going to be stainless steel machines under fluorescent lights (and a bookshelf for light reading). It was going to change someone’s world, one load at a time. A place where something as simple as clean clothes could change everything. Laundry philanthropy, if that’s a thing.

But I didn’t have the money. The odds are forever not in my favor. And when my dream shattered like glass, I turned back to writing. Because I didn’t know what else to do. What started as journaling about my laundromat broken dream became something else: a lifeline. A way to steady myself on the days when the darkness whispered that maybe the Market Street bridge was the only way out. I was a failure. It wasn’t just the laundromat failing that sent me into a deep water soak, there was many other things, too.

Back Story: Writing has always been part of me. My late father was a writer, and I think I inherited both his love for words and his need for them. Words have carried me through grief, abandonment, assault, pain, through the crushing weight of being misunderstood, through the quiet moments when I wondered if I even mattered, to anyone…

But, in my experiences — from childhood into adulthood — my thoughts on paper were often turned against me. I was taught how to covey my thoughts into literary art expression but I failed to adequately protect my manuscripts in the vaults under the Giza pyramids. My private journals, the rawest pieces of me, were discovered and weaponized in fights that felt like nuclear war. Utter betrayal and the deepest invasions of my privacy – over and over. It silenced me. It broke a part of me. I stopped writing my story, indefinitely.

So, I in turn, I started to write about laundry instead.

At first it seemed small, safe, almost mundane. But that was the point. Nobody could tear me apart over detergent. Yet the more I leaned into it, the more I realized laundry wasn’t “just laundry”. It’s ritual. It’s survival. It’s dignity. It’s universal. It’s ancient. It’s painfully human. An act of care that touches every single life in one way or another. There’s something grounding about it, something constant, even when everything else is falling apart.

Then, slowly, it grew into more than survival. I fell in love with writing again. My generic scribbles about laundry do’s and don’ts turned into fascinating blog escapades. I uncovered stories of laundry all across history, religion, science, and folklore that captivated me (and the one or two other people that read my blog). I have spent countless hours scouring archives, wandering into laundry cafés, falling down rabbit holes I didn’t even know existed. I drove three hours to spend the day at a new laundromat. Laundry may have begun as a household chore for me, a safe subject to write about to funnel emotions, but over time it became a passion — one I can’t imagine letting go of now.

Do I think I’ll ever make money from this? Absolutely not. It wasn’t born for profit. It was born out of pain and later bloomed into love. And yet, in a twist of fate, I stumbled across an Amazon link and realized maybe — just maybe — this could reach someone else who could relate to my stories, and maybe they need laundry soap, too? Maybe? It’s here if you wanna check it out.

I don’t share my blog with friends. Not because I don’t care, but because I care too much. Afraid of judgment, of criticism, of someone not understanding that this isn’t just about sorting towels and eco-friendly dryer balls (well, sometimes it is). I fear of another nuclear reaction. For me, it’s deeper. It’s about finding a way to keep going, finding peace after every spin cycle life throws at me. Anonymity, in this case, is peace.

Every writer has an origin story. Some are heroes, some are villains. Mine just happens to smell like detergent and wear two mismatched socks, picture something like an overly sensitive Captain Underpants. Maybe that sounds corky, but it makes perfect, hilarious sense to me. Because laundry, like life, is messy. It stains. It unravels. And it requires work to put it back together again.

So why do I write about laundry? Because it’s where my voice feels safe. Because it’s where I can lay down the weight I carry without someone twisting my humanity into something ugly. Because laundry has become the place where survival turned into passion.

And there are some really great puns, too.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

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Final Spin

Laundry has been my language when I couldn’t find the words. My anchor when grief, love, and loss threatened to pull me under. It started as survival, but it grew into curiosity and passion — a love for the history, science, faith, and everyday rituals that connect us all. I don’t know if my writing will ever lead to a laundromat, or to income, or to anything tangible. Maybe it will always remain just a blog in my little sliver of the internet. But I do know this: it has given me a voice and kept me going. And sometimes, that’s the most important thing of all.

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Cliff Note from The Laundry Club: If you ever find yourself in a place where life’s load feels too heavy, please know you are not alone. You do matter. Reach out to a friend, a loved one, or someone you trust. And if you need immediate support, please call or text the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988. Someone will be there to listen and help you through.

Your story is still unfolding. ❤