Finding Rumplestiltskin

Making my own bed...is like finding my inner Rumplestiltskin—all headphones and woolly feet, with a cuppa and journal in tow. Turning life’s rumples, crumples, and tramples into a mosaic rug spun from courage, grit, and quiet flex.

I’m a creature of habit now.

I wasn’t always like this. My twenties were all about hustling. My thirties — I exploded into my own being. Cared passionately about assertion, about carving out an identity. I began to resemble the stacked masks you see on a totem pole… made a big deal about hanging out with the Joneses (if you get the drift) — even if I couldn’t tell one from a Smith.

Looking back, I see the fallacy. That quiet, relentless need to fit in. To slide neatly into the same cookie-cutter mould.

Now older — wiser in retrospect (and yes, wisdom is wasted on the young — I know that all too wryly now) — I can say this with conviction:

Work for the sake of work is boredom. Terrible stagnation. Quietly destructive as hell’s fire — even if the road to it is paved with good intentions and ministering angels playing golden harps as you march along.

Routine, discipline, consistency? They’re your superpowers. They’ll take you places — metaphorically and physically. (Hit the gym! Break into a sweat.)

So why this prelude to “making your bed”? Because for me… it’s cathartic.

My bed is my oasis of zen. My safe place when my feet are aching, my soul is tired, and sleep lures me into its hypnotic embrace. I sleep like a constrictor — all curled up under a handcrafted cotton duvet from Jaipur.I don’t know why I’m sharing this trivia with you… but now you know a little more about me.

An unmade bed? Rumpled sheets? Flat, lifeless pillows? They set me off like a rampaging T-Rex in Jurassic Park — hunting freshly pressed linen, craving paneer, and desperate to hunker down after a hard day’s work.

It didn’t bother me back then — a decade ago. I was too busy counting my money in the parlour to the tune of Sing a Song of Sixpence to care about manicured linen or pillow fluff levels.

I had a job.I could afford the bread, the honey, the champagne, the caviar, the iPhone, and the snazzy four-wheel ride. Why would I complain?

But now… now that I’m building something from scratch —No guaranteed paycheck.No monthly bonus.And that rainy-day fund? Some days, it flattens.

There are moments I feel more like a bull than a bear — thinking short instead of thinking long. Ready to throw in the towel. Not exactly thrilled about being the woman in the arena.

And yet…It’s purpose and perseverance that keep me going.

I seek comfort in order. In rhythm. In routine.I crave meaning.I find solace in small rituals — the ones that anchor me, shape me, slowly evolve me.

And so, I make my bed. A small, quiet gesture — but one that affirms everything I’m trying to build.

I am becoming thy Rumplestiltskin.

(Not the Grimm one, mind you.)