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| My writing corner in Brugge, where every morning starts with a quiet reflection. |
This morning, I woke up to silence. Not the usual silence—the kind where you know something is missing. For a moment, I lay in bed, confused. Then I remembered. It is Thursday, February 19, 2026. Winter holiday. Krokusvakantie (spring break). No school for my son. No Dutch class for me. A whole week of nothing but time.
I walked to the kitchen to make tea. The apartment was quiet, but not empty-quiet. The good kind of quiet. The kind where you can hear the rain tapping the window, the refrigerator humming, your own breathing.
My son was still asleep. My wife was reading in bed. I sat at our dining table—the same table where I have written every blog you have read—and looked around.
And I noticed something I had been avoiding for weeks.
Clutter Outside, Clutter Inside
Our apartment is not dirty. But it is... heavy.
There are papers on the corner of the counter. Bills in Dutch I still struggle to understand. Drawings from my son's school, too precious to throw, too many to keep. A scarf I keep meaning to fix. A book I started three months ago, bookmark still at page twenty-seven. My phone, always within reach, always demanding attention.
I looked at all of it and felt tired. Not physically. Mentally.
That is when I understood something I have known but never admitted: my home reflects my mind.
When my thoughts are scattered, my space becomes scattered. When I am carrying too much—worries about money, about my Dutch exam, about my mother aging in Nepal, about whether I am raising my son right—the clutter multiplies. Not because I am lazy. Because I am overwhelmed.
In my village, we had almost nothing. One room. One cooking pot. One change of clothes. But I never felt the weight of clutter because there was no clutter to feel. Now I have so much, and somehow it all sits on my chest like a stone.
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| The simple, open horizons of my village in Nepal—a contrast to the heavy clutter of city life. |
My son woke up and wandered into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. "Papa, vandaag geen school?" (Papa, no school today?)
"Nee, beta," I said. "Hele week vrij." (No, son. Whole week free.)
He smiled that smile that still makes my heart stop, even after five years. Then he looked at the table, covered in my papers, and pushed them aside to make space for his cereal bowl.
Even children understand. Make space. Clear what is in the way.
Calm Spaces Create Clear Thinking
Yesterday, even before the holiday began, I decided to do something small. Just one drawer.
The kitchen drawer where we throw everything—old pens, expired coupons, rubber bands, random keys we have not touched since Portugal. That drawer has been bothering me for months. Every time I opened it, something inside me tightened.
So I emptied it.
It took fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes to sort, throw, organize, wipe clean. When I put the last thing back—just the things we actually use—I stood there and stared at it.
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| Fifteen minutes was all it took to turn this drawer from a source of stress into a small pocket of peace |
And I felt lighter.
Not because a drawer matters. Because I mattered enough to fix it.
This morning, I opened that drawer to get a pen. And for one second, I felt peace. Order. A small corner of my world that was not screaming for attention.
My son watched me. "Papa, why are you smiling at the drawer?"
I laughed. "Because it is clean, beta." (Because it is clean, son.)
He thought about this for a moment. Then he went to his room and came back with his toy box. "Can we clean this together?"
We spent an hour sorting his toys. Throwing broken ones. Donating ones he has outgrown. Arranging the rest so he could actually see what he has.
He was so proud. "Kijk Papa, zo mooi!" (Look Papa, so beautiful!)
That night, he played more peacefully than he has in weeks. Not because of the toys. Because the space around him matched the calm inside him.
Children feel it too. We just forget to notice.
Emotional Energy Lives in Walls
I believe homes have memories. Not ghost memories. Emotional memories.
The corner where you had that argument. The chair where you sat when you received bad news. The table where you laughed until you cried. All of it stays, invisible but present, shaping how you feel when you walk through the door.
Last month, my wife and I had a difficult week. Nothing dramatic—just the slow exhaustion of parenting, working, adapting to a country where we still sometimes feel like outsiders. Short words. Heavy silences. The kind of tension that does not announce itself but sits in every room like fog. The cold Brugge rain outside made it feel even thicker.
I noticed our son became clingier. More tantrums. More tears.
Children do not need to understand words to understand atmosphere. They feel everything. The energy lives in the walls, and they absorb it like sponges.
We realized we needed to fix not just our words, but our space.
We cooked together one evening. Dal (lentil soup), tarkari (vegetables), the food of our childhood. We played Nepali music, the kind my grandfather loved. We opened the windows, let fresh air push out the heaviness. We sat on the floor with our son and built towers from wooden blocks, just being present, just being together.
By bedtime, the apartment felt different. Lighter. Warmer.
Our son slept without stirring. My wife held my hand on the couch. And I understood: a peaceful home does not mean no problems. It means choosing, again and again, to fill the space with something better than silence and stress.
Small Changes, Deep Impact
In my last blog, I wrote about small habits. How tiny actions, repeated daily, reshape your entire life.
This is the same truth, just closer to home.
Making your bed each morning is not about the bed. It is about starting the day with a completed task. A small win.
Cleaning one corner is not about the corner. It is about telling yourself: I deserve order. I deserve peace.
Putting your phone away during dinner is not about the phone. It is about saying: You matter more than notifications.
My grandfather never read a self-help book. But he understood this completely. Every evening, before dark, he would sweep the small area in front of our house. Not because it was dirty—it was just dirt, swept and unswept, the same earth. But because the act of sweeping, of tidying, of caring for your space, was also an act of caring for your mind.
He would say, "Nani, aafno ghar safa rakhyo bhane (if you keep your home clean), man pani safa hunchha (your mind also stays clean)."
I did not understand then. I do now.
This Holiday Week
It is Thursday afternoon now. The winter holiday week is already unfolding. Outside, Brugge is cold and wet, the kind of day that makes you want to stay inside with tea and blankets.
My son is napping. My wife is reading. The apartment is quiet in that good way again.
I look around and see not a perfect home, but a home I am slowly learning to care for. The drawer is still clean. The toys are still sorted. The heavy papers are still there, but I have a plan for them now. One pile at a time. One day at a time.
This week, I will not try to change everything. I will not attempt a complete transformation. I will just keep showing up. Making space. Clearing what I can.
Because I have learned that when I care for my home, my home cares for me.
When the space around me is calm, my thoughts become clearer.
When the energy is peaceful, my heart beats slower.
When I put my phone down and actually see my family, I remember why I left my village, crossed oceans, learned new languages, built this life in a country that still sometimes feels like a dream.
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| Learning to make space so my son has a calm environment to grow and play. |
Final Reflection
If your home feels heavy today, maybe it is not about the home.
Maybe your thoughts need sorting.
Maybe your heart needs clearing.
Maybe you need to sit down, look around, and ask yourself: What am I carrying that does not belong here?
Start small. One drawer. One corner. One evening without phones.
Your home will thank you. Your mind will thank you.
And one day, years from now, you will look back and realize that the most important work you ever did was not at an office, not on a stage, not in front of a crowd.
It was right there, inside your own four walls, building peace one small habit at a time.
My son just woke up. He is calling me from his room. "Papa! Kom je spelen?" (Papa, will you come play?)
The laptop can wait. The papers can wait. The worries can wait.
I am going to go build towers with my son, in our small, imperfect, slowly healing home.
And that is enough.
Before you go, I would love to hear from you.
Have you ever noticed how your space reflects what is happening inside you? Is there a small corner of your home that feels heavy right now — or one that brings you peace?
If you feel comfortable, share your experience in the comments. What is one small change that helped you feel lighter? Your story might help someone else who is quietly going through the same thing.
"Stay mindful, stay curious, and keep finding the beauty in the small habits. Until next time, keep the vibes high."
-With love, Bitty
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