How I finally let my family help without losing my mind

By Luna Vermeer

6 min

For years, I believed that if I wanted something done right, I had to do it myself. This rule applied to laundry, loading the dishwasher, and even how the couch cushions should be fluffed. My family offered to help, but I always waved them off, secretly convinced they’d mess it up. Eventually, though, I realized that my need for control was costing me more than a few perfectly folded towels it was costing me peace of mind.

The cishwasher debacle

I used to think loading the dishwasher was basically an Olympic sport. Plates had to be angled just so, cups on the top rack only, and don’t even think about mixing plastics with glass. When my partner tried to help, I hovered behind him like a suspicious referee, sighing dramatically as he put a spoon in the ‘wrong’ spot. At some point, I realized I was spending more energy correcting him than it would take to just let him do it. And honestly, once I looked at the bigger picture, who cares if the forks face east or west? Letting go of my dishwasher dictatorship was the first step toward sanity.

The laundry lesson

The first time my teenager offered to do laundry, I panicked. My inner voice screamed: he will shrink everything, he will mix whites with reds, and I will end up with a wardrobe that looks like it joined a circus. But instead of saying no, I handed over the basket and walked away after taking one deep, dramatic breath. Guess what? The world didn’t end. Yes, a towel came out a shade pinker than it started, but I also got an entire hour to drink tea and read a book. And let’s be real: pink is kind of cheerful.

Control freak anonymous

I didn’t realize how addicted I was to being in charge until I actually stepped back. Every time I let someone help, I had to fight the urge to ‘fix it’ after them. But slowly, I began to see that my way wasn’t the only way it was just one way. The beds may not look like a hotel made them, but they are cozy. The meals may not be plated like a food magazine, but they’re nourishing (and cooked by someone other than me!). It hit me that perfection was overrated, and shared responsibility was wildly underrated. My family wasn’t trying to sabotage me; they were trying to love me in the language of action.

Freedom

These days, I let go a little more, and honestly, it feels like freedom. I can sip wine while someone else burns I mean, cooks the pasta. I can laugh at the incorrectly folded towels instead of redoing them. And when I walk into a room and see that my kids have stacked books like leaning towers of Pisa, I choose gratitude over groaning. Because the truth is, I don’t need perfection, I need a life where I’m not the only one carrying the weight. Letting my family help has been messy, funny, and unexpectedly healing. And if the price of freedom is a pink towel or two, I’ll gladly pay it.

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