Let the Laundry Wait
Reminders for Life Transitions
Be gentle with yourself during times of change.
There are transitions that come with excitement and expansion. And there are those that bring heartbreak or loss. But no matter how they appear—joyful or painful—they both ask us to slow down. To grieve. To let go of who we were before stepping into something new.
They can look like dirty laundry on the floor. Dishes piling up. Basic life tasks falling away. Because with both kinds of transition, fear arises—and fear, when not met with love, can be paralyzing. A new version of you is arriving and it needs space to land.
When I moved to South Africa, I had all the time in the world to unpack. And yet…I didn’t. Not for two weeks. I kept telling myself I should have more energy. I should feel more grounded by now. But what I really needed wasn’t discipline—it was grace.
Because even when a change is beautiful—even when it’s exactly what your soul chose—it still asks your nervous system to adjust. Moving to Cape Town was an answered prayer, a place to finally call home after being a nomad for longer than I desired to be. It felt like a soul alignment and I was so excited. But it also meant starting over with friends, community, familiarity, comfort.
It takes energy to learn new rhythms, absorb new information, and reorient your place in a world that's new to you.
It takes even more energy when that change touches your heart. When it's unplanned. When it's painful. In the wake of covid, my partner broke up with me. We'd just moved in together and the lease was in my name, which meant, I was the one who stayed there. In the empty shell of a home we were meant to build together.
I stopped doing the dishes, making healthy meals, washing my clothes—hell, I wasn't washing myself very frequently.
While these transitions look very different from the outside, they both carry the same invitation beneath the surface: a call toward more self-love, more compassion, more truth.
There’s a strange kind of grief that can show up when we step into a new version of ourselves or our lives. Whether chosen or forced. The part of us that survived by staying small or cautious or guarded doesn’t know who they’ll be in this new space. And so they resist. Not out of sabotage—but out of fear of being left behind.
And maybe that resistance looks like dishes piling up. Or inboxes left unanswered. Or dreams waiting a little longer than we’d like.
But it’s not because we’re lazy.
It’s not because we’re failing.
It’s because we’re becoming.
And becoming takes bandwidth.
There are so many kinds of life transitions. Some come cloaked in joy—a new love, a new calling, a long-awaited move. Others arrive through loss—a breakup, a job ending, a dream dissolving. But no matter how a transition is labeled—'positive' or 'negative'—they both ask us to grieve. To release. To honor who we were before we can fully become who we are now.
And so, part of the work is gently letting those prior versions of ourselves know it’s okay to step into something scary. Something beautiful. Unknown. Challenging. Fulfilling. Heartbreaking. All of it is allowed to be here.
For me, this is real right now. Amidst my move, I've also entered into a new relationship. I'm in a season of opening—of allowing in a new kind of love, healthy love. And while my mind says yes, there’s a tender part of me that still doubts. That still wonders if it’s safe. That still tries to protect me from being hurt.
I've realized there's a younger part of me who doesn't fully trust love yet. She feels unsure. She remembers pain.
And so, I’m reminding myself: I am love. I deserve to receive love. I’m safe to receive it. I’m returning to the same practices that supported me when I first arrived here.
Grounding. Acknowledging. Honoring. Loving.
One simple practice is placing one hand on my heart and one on my belly—I talk to the version of me that feels scared, unseen, or left behind. I remind her that I’m always here for her—that I know how to love her now, and that it’s safe to receive love too. I thank her for how she's protected me. I whisper softly to her, “We are safe.” Letting that reminder land in my body. Letting myself be held. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I just breathe. But every time, something softens.
If you’re moving through a life transition, let grace meet you there. Let gentleness lead. You are learning how to be this new you.
And that deserves more compassion than productivity.
You don’t have to do everything to be worthy. You don’t have to keep up to be enough. Allow yourself to grieve if you need to. To cry. To scream.
You are not behind.
You are becoming.
You are not alone. If you're looking for a space to feel seen, heard, understood and supported, join the Self-Love Sanctuary by subscribing to my blog. This is a place where you can retreat to the safety of being held in loving compassion.
Love Always,
Becca