Can we start a Busy Bodies Anonymous support group? Hi, I’m Sam and I’m addicted to productivity. No matter how tired, sick or burned out I may be, I always feel like I should be doing something. I often find myself pacing my house looking for a chore or task, never sitting too long, watching TV standing up or frozen with a broom in my hands. Even something as fundamental as eating breakfast just feels like another task to complete before I can move on the next thing. Does the conditioning to be a “contributing member of society” run so deep that I can’t cast it off in my own home? And to be clear, the pressure only exists outside of my home. My husband has repeatedly expressed that he puts zero stipulations or requirements on my role as a homemaker. He is loudly thankful for the work that I do and readily participates in caring for our home and family. So why do I feel guilty if I’m sitting on the couch when he gets home from work? Why do I obsessively watch the clock, comparing how long I’ve been awake to how much work I’ve gotten done? Why is there a to-do list constantly humming in my mind?

I want to relax. I want to unwind. But that laundry needs folding. I need to vacuum under the couches. When did I last dust the blinds? I could be mopping the bathroom floors right now. Ironically, the result of this addiction isn’t a spectacularly tidy home; it’s a simmering resentment of my family’s lack of addiction. As I’m scrubbing the baseboards, I’m annoyed that nobody else noticed they were dusty. As I’m color-coding my daughter’s closet for the umpteenth time, I’m irritated that she’s not keeping the clothes in rainbow order. And all the while, the rational part of my brain is screaming at me how unreasonable it is to expect her to. To expect my family to clean as obsessively as I do. To expect myself to clean as obsessively as I do.

Cleaning and organizing my house are the extent of this productivity addiction. It’s not like I’m throwing myself into running a soup kitchen or picking up litter. My sewing projects sit abandoned. My writing notebooks are half empty. My crochet hooks are neglected in a desk drawer. But the thing is…I can’t fail at scrubbing a toilet. Loading the dishwasher won’t turn out wonky. I don’t need to think too hard when I’m polishing the faucets. Endlessly cleaning and scrubbing and organizing are safe – a guaranteed process with guaranteed results. But where’s the growth and satisfaction in that?

Please hear me, my fellow addicts, there are no cameras in your house live-streaming your every move to a council of judgmental grannies and aunts. There’s no one standing over your shoulder tsking at you for lounging on your couch in your home. There is no “World’s Greatest Homemaker” award to be given at the end of your life. And if your family puts “Loving Mother Who Kept a Clean House” on your tombstone, come back and haunt them.

If you enjoy having a clean house (who doesn’t?), then by all means clean it. Make a schedule and choose 2 or 3 tasks for each day and stick to it. But don’t be a slave to running your household. Don’t martyr your personhood for neat bookshelves and pristine kitchen counters. Nothing bad is going to happen if you don’t sweep the living room right this minute. Your roof will not cave in if you spend an hour painting. You’re a person. Not a machine graded on its output and at risk of being decommissioned. You are worthy of relaxation. Worthy of a deep breath, unclenched jaws and dropped shoulders. Worthy of thoughts beyond what to cook for dinner. Rest is revolutionary. Rest is love. You deserve.

Written by:

Samantha Allen

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