There is something mother gave me that I did not recognize as sacred until much later: the quiet discipline of keeping a clean home.
Even in the darkest days of addiction, when the world felt small and scattered, that lesson still flickered somewhere inside me. I could be lost, shaky, and hollow, yet when the drugs ran out—when the fog briefly lifted—I would reach for a sponge, a towel, a broom, a mop. I would scrub surfaces, wipe counters, straighten clutter, take out the trash, and breathe a little easier in the aftermath. There was something sacred in that. Even in the hardest chapters, a part of me still cared. The act of cleaning, even in brief moments between storms, was my way of saying, “I’m still here. I still matter.”
It was not about neatness, not really. It was about reclaiming a piece of myself from the chaos. Cleaning became a ritual of survival. Each small act—mopping a floor, rinsing a sink—was an act of dignity. Mom planted that seed: the sense that order, cleanliness, and care for my space reflect care for my spirit. Even when addiction tried to bury that part of me, it never succeeded. That instinct to clean was not just about surfaces; it was a quiet rebellion, a whisper of self-respect that refused to die out.
Now, years later, that impulse has softened into something else. It is no longer desperation; it is devotion. A way to reset my mind. A way to bring stillness into form. When I mop the bathroom floor or fold laundry after coming home from a long shift, I feel her teachings alive in my hands.
Cleanliness, practiced with presence, is not just maintenance. It is prayer.
And perhaps that is what she was teaching me all along.
— Mark Hanze