Why is it So Hard to Clean My Room
My bedroom is my private place. The walls of my room know every little secret, having watched me write down every single story of mine in my journal. My pillows have felt every tear, and my blue rug knows of every solo dance party I’ve had at 2 am. My room holds pieces of me from the past—interests and hobbies that I’ve grown apart from and seemingly left behind. Pictures of all my friends and photos of foes I haven’t quite let go of yet. My stuffed animals were gifts from someone special, who are now children of divorce. Every aspect of my bedroom is an extension of me. I love my room.
But walking into my room after a long, busy week is a different story, and it sparks the never-ending question I always ask myself:
Why can I never seem to keep my room clean?
Posters are falling down from the fan being turned up too high. Laundry, overdue by weeks, is piled up in the corner. My bed sits unmade, as it usually does, a reminder of the chaos that comes with too much on my plate. More clothes have made their way to the floor. Flyers from events I had no intention of attending are scattered around the desk. My makeup is piled up, and my hoop earrings are left on the floor beside the bed. Water bottles have taken over any flat surface. And that’s just the start.
If my room is truly an extension of me, why does it always feel like it’s in constant disarray? A place that should be my safe and cozy escape feels more like a constant reminder that I’m struggling to keep everything in balance.
Maybe the mess isn’t about neglect. Maybe it’s about the pressure of always feeling like there’s something more to do—something I haven’t quite tackled yet. When I look at my room, I see a reflection of the chaos that lives in my mind. The scattered laundry, the unfinished projects, the clutter—it all mirrors the emotional clutter that piles up during stressful weeks. It's easier to let things build up than to confront them head-on. Perhaps the mess is a way of coping—a visual reminder of the challenges I’m facing but haven’t yet solved. The disorder in my room isn’t just physical—it’s emotional and mental, too. It’s a mix of exhaustion, uncertainty, and an overwhelming to-do list that keeps me from taking the time to tidy up.
Even as a child, I struggled to keep my room clean. I’d hear my parents’ voices echoing through the house, telling me to straighten up, put my toys away, and make my bed. No matter how many times I was scolded or reminded, the mess would always find its way back. There was always something more pressing to do—something more fun or more distracting—than cleaning. It’s almost like I developed a pattern of putting off the task because it felt overwhelming, too tedious, or just plain unimportant in the grand scheme of things. My parents’ frustrations felt like the weight of their expectations pressing on me, but even as an adult, that same struggle to maintain order remains.
But that’s also what makes my room feel so intimate. It holds all of me—the good, the bad, and the messy. There’s no pressure for perfection here. My room is a reflection of my humanity: unfinished, evolving, and full of contradictions. It’s a safe haven, not because it’s always pristine, but because it’s mine. It’s a place where I can lay bare the parts of me I’m still figuring out, without having to explain or justify them to anyone. In the chaos, there’s comfort.
When I close the door, I am retreating into a space where I can finally exhale. The outside world can wait. Here, I don’t need to have all the answers or fix everything at once. I can just be. The mess becomes a metaphor for life itself—unpredictable, challenging, and sometimes overwhelming—but also real, full of depth, and uniquely mine. I don’t need to have everything in its place to find peace. I just need to be in this room, where the walls know my story, and I can take a moment to breathe, to grow, and to simply exist without expectation. Because this room is a part of me, and I wouldn’t change a thing, except maybe the amount of laundry.
