An Ode to Effort, Mess, and What Still Matters

When You Scrub the Floor and Life Brings the Mud Anyway
An ode to effort, mess, and what still matters

Some days you scrub the floor. And some days, life tracks muddy footprints right through it.

It was one of those mornings when I decided to do the kind of cleaning that counts.
Not a casual swipe or a quick Swiffer drive-by.
I mean the kind of mopping that involves getting down on your knees.
Hands in the corners. Sweat in your hairline.

I was one lavender-scented moment away from feeling like a woman who had her life together.

The floor gleamed.
And for a solid ten minutes, I let myself feel proud of that.
I had done the work.
I had created order.
I even lit a candle.

And then…

The dogs came in.

From the backyard.
From the rain-soaked, mulch-filled, puddle-happy backyard.
They had apparently discovered two of nature’s greatest wonders: wet dirt and standing water.
And not one of them thought to send a courtesy bark before tracking it all across the kitchen.

Pawprints. Everywhere.
It looked like a crime scene if the suspect was joyful, muddy, and had four feet.

The worst part?
They were so proud of themselves.
Tongues lolling. Tails wagging. Like they’d brought me a gift.
Like I might want to join them next time.

I stood there, mop still drying in the corner, and felt that familiar sinking feeling.
Not just because of the mess—but because of the meaning I started to attach to it.

Why do I even try?
What’s the point of effort if the outcome can vanish in a second?
Why do I bother scrubbing anything if it’s just going to get ruined again?

You know that moment, right?
When you’ve finally done the thing—sent the email, folded the laundry, showed up to the hard conversation—and something immediately comes along and unravels it.

There’s a particular kind of grief in that. A frustration.
It feels like being erased.

Every part of me wanted to grab the mop and start over.
To undo the undoing.
To reclaim control.

But another part whispered,
“Maybe it’s not about keeping it clean, but letting the mess be part of the living.”

And here’s what I’m learning:

The mud doesn’t undo the clean.
The mess doesn’t cancel the care.
The chaos doesn’t mean you failed.

That floor?
It was clean.
That effort?
It mattered.

Just because the outcome didn’t last doesn’t mean the work was wasted.

You don’t have to measure your worth by what stays done.
Not by clean floors that won’t stay clean.
Not by to-do lists that re-populate like bunnies.
Not by how quickly the mess comes back.

Because it will come back.
That’s not a failure. That’s just life.
And the point was never perfection. The point was presence. Care. Intention.

You showed up.
You tended.
You made something beautiful for a moment.

And that is no small thing.

Maybe for you it’s not muddy pawprints.

Maybe it’s the kitchen that won’t stay clean, or the conversation that keeps circling back.
The inbox that fills up again.
The boundary you set that feels invisible.
The effort that no one claps for.

Whatever it is, it’s okay.
You’re not alone in it.

So on the days the dogs (or the kids, or the inbox, or the weather, or the world) come barreling through your clean floor…

Change your socks.
Breathe deep.
Let the floor air-dry this round.
And remember:

You’re not behind. You’re not failing.
You’re just living a very real, very human, very muddy story.

What’s one muddy moment you can choose not to take personally today?

I’ll be cheering you on.
(Mop optional. Grace has the floor.)