I keep hearing people say “Cleaning is so terapeuthic.” They say it with glowing eyes and gentle smiles, as if they have just returned from a silent retreat where they communed with their inner llama. I live in Hackney. I have never once achieved emotional calm by scrubbing anything in this flat. I don’t float around with a linen apron, humming softly, delighting in the twinkle of a freshly wiped mirror. I get sweaty, annoyed, and far too aware of how much dust collects behind the toaster.
Some people genuinely believe cleaning unlocks inner peace. I tried to join them once. I made an effort. I even looked up “how to make cleaning meditative” on the internet. I lit a scented candle. I played some soft music that sounded like a waterfall trickling over smooth stones. I stood in my kitchen, mop in hand, ready to experience this magical cleansing of both soul and floor.
Ten minutes later, the mop handle had snapped, the candle was smoking, and I was questioning whether life has any structure at all.
If this is what tranquillity feels like, I’ll stick to bubble baths and biscuits.
The Myth of the Meditative Mop
Some people insist scrubbing a sink brings peace. I understand the theory. There’s rhythm, physical movement, a chance to focus on something simple. I respect it in the way I respect people who run marathons. I admire them. I clap for them. I don’t join them.
I noticed the idea usually comes from people whose homes already look neat. They clean for “maintenance”. I clean because something sticky has developed its own personality on the kitchen counter and is threatening to speak.
I once tried to be one of these serene cleaners. I woke up early, opened the windows, and attempted to mop my living room with grace, poise, and a carefully curated playlist.
I ended up slipping slightly, growling, then sending a text to my group chat that simply read: “If anyone ever again suggests cleaning is relaxing I will personally deliver them my bin.”
Where This Nonsense Comes From
I suspect the internet started it. People who colour-code their tea towels and refer to clutter as “visual noise” seem to love spreading the message that cleaning equals calm. Some call it self-care. That word gets thrown around like confetti these days.
There’s also that whole idea of simplifying your life through spotless surroundings. Lovely in theory. Lovely for people who have three items in their living room and no children, pets, or hobbies.
My flat has personality. It has stories. It has things I might need one day, like a broken side table and a box of tangled cables that definitely serve some mysterious purpose.
My Attempt at ‘Mindful’ Hoovering
I once tried to hoover mindfully. I told myself I would connect with the moment. I would feel the movement of the hoover. I would breathe deeply. I would be one with the crumbs.
Two minutes in, I found myself muttering, “Where did all this fluff come from?” as if the fluff might reply. I did not reach enlightenment. I reached irritation. I reached awareness of areas I had never hoovered before. I reached the point where the hoover cord wrapped itself around my ankle and tried to kill me.
I did not feel meditative. I felt attacked.
My Hackney Flat Is Not a Retreat Centre
I love my flat. It’s small, sunny on a good day, and chaotic in a charming way. It holds books, plants, mismatched mugs, and the occasional sock that mysteriously travels about with no known origin. It’s lived in. It feels warm. It feels like life happens here.
Trying to make it feel like a luxury spa through cleaning alone is like trying to teach a fox how to wear trainers and walk upright to Tesco. The fox will not do that. The fox will run into a hedge, knock over a bin, and scream under the moon. I relate deeply to that fox.
The Cupboard of Shame
Everyone has one cupboard that contains mystery, danger, and regret. Mine is in the hallway. I opened it once to get a spare lightbulb and was trapped under an avalanche of gift bags, extension leads, and a tin of paint I swear I’ve never bought.
People online say sorting that cupboard brings healing. I say it brings existential crisis.
The Bathroom Tiles Incident
One afternoon, I tried to scrub my bathroom tiles with a toothbrush because someone online swore it was “transformative”. I lasted seven minutes. My arm hurt, my back hurt, and the tiles looked exactly the same.
I did not feel cleansed. I felt lied to.
The Glorious Truth: Professional Cleaners Exist
Then came the revelation. The discovery. The joy. Professional cleaners exist. People who actually know what they’re doing. People who have proper tools, actual techniques, and the emotional distance to look at grime without screaming.
Watch a professional clean a kitchen and you will understand grace.
They move like they’re conducting an orchestra. Spray, wipe, sweep, buff. They don’t complain. They don’t whine about the mop having a vendetta. They don’t take cleaning personally. They just get it done.
The Peace That Comes From Outsourcing
I now go get a coffee while my flat is professionally cleaned. I sit with my oat flat white in a café full of other Hackney residents pretending to write novels. I come home to the smell of citrus and possibility. The surfaces shine. The floors gleam. There is space to breathe.
That peace is real. That peace is earned. That peace is bought, and I would sell my left shoe before giving it up.
They Don’t Judge Your Cupboard of Shame
I used to worry the cleaner would look into the cupboard and gasp. She didn’t. She opened it, nodded, reorganised it in ten minutes, and didn’t even blink.
These people have seen things. Your chaos does not scare them.
The Guilt People Try To Give You
Some folks insist everyone should clean their own home. They say hiring someone means you lack discipline. I say refusing help when you hate cleaning is like refusing a lift because “real adults walk”.
There is no medal for suffering through chores you despise. Life gives no points for stubborn martyrdom.
The Invisible Labour Problem
There’s also a quiet truth that cleaning gets pushed onto women far more often. Outsourcing is sometimes the only way to make life fairer. No shame in that. Real fairness begins at home. Preferably a clean one.
Choosing a Cleaner Without Losing Your Mind
I found my cleaner through neighbours. Hackney has a thriving network of people who know a person who knows a person who once cleaned for a singer no one is allowed to name. You ask around. You read reviews. You trust that someone who cares about their plants probably knows a good cleaner.
Treat your cleaner well. They rescue you from chaos. They deserve respect, clear communication, a thank you, and a chocolate bar now and then.
Communication Saves Lives (And Skirting Boards)
Tell them if you don’t want things moved. Tell them if the cat is prone to disappearing into cupboards. Tell them if the shower has a dramatic water pressure that might surprise them.
Everyone wins when everyone knows what’s going on.
I still don’t believe cleaning is terapeutic. Some people knit to relax. Some garden. I let someone else clean my bathroom while I sip warm coffee and consider whether to rearrange my spice rack for the tenth time instead.
Peace found.
Shiny countertops achieved.
No toothbrush scrubbing required.


