The Dishes Are Judging Me (Again)

The Dishes Are Judging Me (Again)

Because apparently they don’t care that I’m out of spoons.

Somewhere in the depths of my kitchen sink, a single fork mocks me. Just sitting there. Probably whispering, “Wow, couldn’t even rinse me off?” And honestly? No, I could not.

Because here’s the thing about housework when you’re neurodivergent, over-touched, under-rested, and emotionally crispy: the dishes aren’t just dishes. They’re guilt. They’re shame. They’re a Greek chorus singing off-key reminders that I’m “failing at adulthood.” And that’s before we even get to the laundry.

People love to say “you’ll feel better once it’s clean!” as if motivation just floats down from the ceiling like fairy dust the moment I pick up a mop. Newsflash: it doesn’t. Motivation doesn’t show up first. It’s not the starting pistol. It’s the afterthought maybe—if the stars align and the coffee kicks in at the right time.

Most days, I stare at the chaos and think, “Yeah, not today, Satan.” I know what needs to be done. I even want it done. I just can’t seem to start. Executive dysfunction isn’t cute. It doesn’t care about your to-do list, your planner, or your Pinterest board full of “Cleaning Hacks That Changed My Life.”

And let’s talk about the kids. They are brilliant. Hilarious. Neurospicy and overflowing with personality. But helpful? Not especially. One of them wipes peanut butter on the couch and swears it’s “abstract art.” Another uses the laundry basket as a fort and the third seems to believe the floor is the laundry basket. Add in my ADHD husband—who I love deeply but who also leaves a trail of half-done projects like breadcrumbs—and suddenly the clutter feels... personal.

The house is loud. Small. Cramped. Full of love and crumbs and noise and color-coded chaos that never
stays coded. It’s not Pinterest-perfect, but it’s real.

And still, the dishes judge me. Again.

But here’s what I try to remember when it all feels like too much:

• Done is better than perfect.

• A 10-minute tidy still counts.

• The mess isn’t a moral failure.

• Motivation often shows up after momentum—not before.

Some days I conquer the dishes. Some days I just rinse one spoon and call it a win. Either way? I’m doing the best I can, in the body and brain I’ve got.

So yeah. The dishes are judging me. Again. But I’m learning not to take it personally.