Messiness ought to be celebrated. It’s a problem to solve, a bad habit to rectify, something to apologize for profusely when a visitor walks in.
For years, it felt like I failed the aesthetic litmus test for being grown-up and put together, influenced by images of beautifully arranged, clean homes.
The world is harsh toward messy people. Not that long ago, I thought the home of a mature, successful woman was a bright and airy haven.
In my private inbox, people tell me my embrace of mess is revolutionizing their lives. I’m not just making excuses; I’m changing perspectives.
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