No Egg in the Carpet

No Egg in the Carpet

This Wasn’t Meant to Be a Blog

I nearly didn’t write this.

Because I haven’t cracked procrastination.

Because I’m still in the loop.

Because I thought, “What value is there in sharing something I haven’t completed?”

But maybe that’s exactly why I wrote it.

Because this is the process.

This is what I do when I’m healing.

I stop pretending.

I get curious.

I ask better questions.

And I let the truth arrive when it’s ready — not when it’s polished.

No one gives you a ‘how to’ guide for healing.

But if they did… this would be mine.

And maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up, read this back, and feel something shift.

Maybe I’ll move one bag, one drawer, one memory closer to the version of me I’m becoming.

The version of me who already lives here.

In the lightness.

In the peace.

In the home she finally chose for herself.

Some days, I can write three blogs before breakfast. Other days, I can’t face putting a wash on or drying it on the rack.

If its joy filled, i dont usually procrastinate at all.

Give me a launch, a vision, a cosmic soul download? I’m in. But the menial daily stuff?The laundry. The food shop. The never-ending school admin. Those are the things that haunt me. Not because they’re hard. But because they’re relentless. They don’t create. They don’t evolve. They just… repeat. And the weight of repetition is something my soul resists more than I care to admit.

If it’s sunny, I’m on it. Coffee in hand, music on, jobs done before the school run. But if it’s grey, heavy, or my body aches a little more than usual — the resistance builds.

And I scroll.

And I stall.

And I feel quietly disappointed in myself for doing so.

Here’s what most people don’t see: Before I do anything, there’s a whole conversation going on in my head. A scan of my pain level. A check on my energy. A debate about whether I have the strength to walk through the shop without my leg dragging. And if it does drag — if I stumble — will I cry? Will I laugh it off? Will I get back up before someone rushes over?That’s a lot of background noise before I'm squeezing honey into my tripple espresso.

And I’m tired. Not just in my bones, but in my mind — of having to convince myself to do what everyone else does without a second thought. There’s a difference between physical effort and mental prep. And for people like me, the mental prep is the marathon.

And maybe, its possible that I’ve gone on strike.

Not consciously. Not with a sign or a stomp. But in that silent, soul-deep way. The kind where the body whispers, 'I’ve carried enough' Where the mind says, 'I know what to do — but I need a break from doing it all'. Because for years, I’ve done so much alone. Healing. Parenting. Surviving. Showing up with pep talks and post-it affirmations. Creating something out of nothing over and over again. Maybe now I’m asking: Where’s the softness?Who catches me when I can’t be bothered to try? Can I let something fall, just once, without feeling like I’ve failed? And I don’t have the answers yet. But I’m willing to keep asking.

When I think about the things I avoid — the laundry, the tidying, the clearing — there’s no dramatic emotion. No tears. No panic. Just a quiet drop in my solar plexus. Not the heartbreak kind — it’s not sadness. It’s more like: “Again? Seriously? I’m tired.”

A sigh from the soul that says, “I’ve done this before. I’ve done it a thousand times. And I know I’ll have to do it again tomorrow.”

The version of me I picture when I imagine doing it all with ease? She’s from the past. She had bounce. She had FOMO. She’d say yes to everything that wasn’t menial — always on the go, always chasing something.

She wasn’t necessarily tidy by nature, but she had the energy to try.

I grew up in a showroom house. My mum is the queen of clean — the kind of woman who bleaches the skirting boards for fun and could probably spot a crumb in the dark.

So yes, the standard was high.

And no, I didn’t meet it.

By the time I found my own desire for order — when I actually wanted to live in a clean, calm space — I was already behind. Because I had kids. Not babies. Not quite big kids — but tweens.

I'd wake up to fridge contents on the walls. Egg in the carpet. Milk in the fruit bowl.

And it wasn’t just me that experienced this artistic food revolution from having young ones. Things like this are common than we admit. We just carry it — quietly, tiredly, and alone.

Now that my kids are older, the chaos has eased. When I tidy, it usually stays tidy — at least until they empty their bedrooms. The kitchen is a different story. Teenagers and late-night snacks are a lawless combo. Half of my cutlery and crockery disappear into their rooms. And then my washing basket explodes, the sink piles up, and it looks like someone hosted a massive street party without telling me.

But I don’t believe tidying is futile anymore. The house holds better now. What lingers is the emotional residue from when it didn’t.

My body sometimes still reacts like I’m back in the trenches — even though the war’s mostly over.

When I imagine someone helping me — really helping me — the first emotion that shows up is embarrassment. Not because I don’t want help, but because of what they might see. Dust. Crumbs. A dog smell. A rogue apple core under the sofa. My Monica Geller cupboard under the stairs. The physical proof of the days I couldn’t cope.

The judgment I fear? It’s mine. It’s how I feel about myself. And I didn’t even realise it until now.

It’s inherited. Generational.

I come from a line of women who didn’t rest. Who kept everything spotless even when they were falling apart. Who taught me that anything less than perfect needs an apology.

If my home didn’t need to impress anyone? I’d want it clean. Tidy. Clutter-free. Fresh. Easy to maintain. No extra mess made by others. I wouldn’t panic if someone turned up unannounced. I wouldn’t feel the need to apologise.

It would feel like mine.

Peaceful. Simple. Enough.

And thats what I've been handed.

My 2 older boys have pretty much left home and im moving to a smaller house with my youngest.

and it has filled me with dread. The procrastination came back in a huge way.

Resistance to something I've dreamt of for so long?

When I picture the version of me who’s moved into the new house, I see peace.

Clutter gone. Old furniture gone.

Over 50% of it — released.

Not because the house is smaller, but because the energy doesn’t belong to me.

Most of it was inherited.

Offered with kindness, received with gratitude. But they were never mine. Not really.

im thankful for all of it, I know how lucky ive been with being kitted out and I've thanked every piece for making a home for the past version of me and for my children (yes, seriously)

They were pieces of other people’s vision of home.

I think I’ve always lived in a state of lack.

And in typing that, I realise: The halt I’ve been experiencing isn’t laziness.

It’s the part of me — the version who survived all those years — digging her heels in. Because I’ve outgrown her. And she’s scared. Because what comes after survival? What does thriving even look like?

This nearly wasn’t a Blog

I nearly didn’t write this. Because I haven’t cracked procrastination. Because I’m still in the loop. Because I thought, “What value is there in sharing something I haven’t completed?”

But maybe that’s exactly why I wrote it. Because this is the process.

This is what I do when I’m healing.I stop pretending.

I get curious. I ask better questions. And I let the truth arrive when it’s ready.

Noone gives you a ‘how to’ guide for healing. But if they did… this would be mine.

💌 Rhianna — From Future You

Get off your arse.

This short discomfort is temporary — but you are ready

It’s okay to let go.

Old Rhianna learnt everything you needed to know. You won’t forget her — but you’re not meant to stay her

New Rhianna is calling. She’s lighter. She laughs more. She doesn’t carry what you’ve already outgrown.

Enjoy the transition. Don’t fight it if you can help it.

The strength you need for these next few weeks — these bite-sized chunks — is child’s play compared to the chaos you’ve survived.

And best of all?

There’s no egg in the carpet waiting for you in the mornings anymore.