I don’t remember when I started caring about the way dish soap smells. I think it was one of those quiet shifts. You know? Like how one day you’re fine drinking gas station coffee, and the next, you’re grinding beans by hand like a lunatic at 7am.
It probably started during one of those chaotic apartment moves. You pack everything, swear you’ll declutter this time, and then realize you’ve transported three broken phone chargers and a bag of expired lentils across state lines.
That’s when I started noticing the small things. Noticing in a real way. Like how much packaging comes with a single online order. Or how drawer space disappears even when you swear you’re not buying anything new.
At some point, I stopped buying backup backups. I mean, how many emergency travel-size hand lotions does one person need? Two? Five? I had eleven. They were all in the same shade of lavender, which I don’t even like.
I think I wanted my stuff to make sense more. Not be fancy. Just… make sense.
The first thing I did was get rid of all the products I kept “just in case.” You know the ones. That weird balm that didn’t really work but felt expensive so you held onto it. That free lip scrub you got in a swag bag and never opened. Out. Gone.
What I kept surprised me. It wasn’t the shiny or trendy stuff. It was the basic, boring, dependable things. Like my ten-year-old cotton scarf. Or the travel mug with the scratch on the side that somehow keeps coffee hotter than any of the new ones.
One of my weirder favorites right now is this soap saver pouch. Honestly, it just hangs in my kitchen, looking like it’s doing nothing. But inside? Ends of soap bars that used to get wasted. I toss them in, add a little water, and boom — it lathers like magic. Plus, something about using up the whole bar is just... satisfying. Like a tiny act of defiance against waste.
Another thing I didn’t expect to love: my desk fan. Not the sleek kind. This one’s slightly noisy and older than some of my friendships, but it’s got a perfect breeze and a comforting hum. I use it year-round. Even in winter. Especially when I write.
I also became one of those people who reuses jars. Jars! Pickle jars, salsa jars, even the tiny ones from jam samplers. My friends make fun of me, but I swear — there’s no better container for loose screws or salad dressing or change for the laundromat.
And clothes. Oh, clothes. I used to hoard t-shirts like souvenirs. But lately, I’ve started cutting them into squares for cleaning rags. They work better than paper towels. They don’t tear. And they’re kind of nostalgic? Like wiping your counter with a memory from college.
My apartment has slowly filled up with stuff I actually use. Not display. Not stash. Use. A plant mister that actually mists instead of soaking everything. A tiny tool for de-pilling sweaters (life changing). A vegan dry shampoo that doesn’t make my scalp sad.
It’s not about minimalism. I still love a good thrift find. I still have two waffle irons — don’t ask. But there’s a joy in knowing what’s in your cabinets. And liking it.
It’s kind of like curating your life in small, invisible ways. Not for show. Not for Instagram. Just for you.
Lately I’ve been walking more. Not for exercise, necessarily. Just walking. Without a destination. There’s a tree near my street that drops bright red berries all over the sidewalk in fall. I have no idea what kind of tree it is. But I like it.
I also stopped listening to “productive” podcasts while I walk. Now I play music. Or nothing. Sometimes I just eavesdrop on birds or neighbors. There’s a guy down the block who sings when he rakes leaves. Off key. Always joyful. I love him.
I’m learning that quiet joy matters. That usefulness is a kind of beauty. That you don’t need to have a Pinterest board to have good taste.
One of my friends recently asked me what my “aesthetic” is now. I told her it’s “things I’ll still want to use in five years.”
She laughed. But I meant it.
Because when you spend time with your stuff — really spend time — you figure out what matters. And most of it isn’t shiny. It’s the sponge that doesn’t smell weird. The mug that fits your hand just right. The sandals that have molded perfectly to your feet.
So yeah. I care about dish soap now. I care about labels that peel off easily. I care about things that feel like they belong with me, not just to me.
And I care about paying attention. Even if it’s just to a bar of soap or a street full of red berries.
