A Brief Exploration Of My Wet-Sock-Related Undoing

It was a random Tuesday night. Everyone was in bed. It was late. The house was quiet, even the cats (feel like I’m heading into a satirical version of ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas’).

I had completed negotiations with myself around what I deemed essential and basic hygiene (brushing teeth) and what could wait until the next day (washing hair).

I was in cosy pyjamas, and my favourite thing of all (and always a self-care victory) – a clean, fresh pair of fluffy socks.

I stepped onto the landing and spotted some clothes in the main bathroom, unceremoniously dumped next to the washing basket (parents of teens, join me in this perpetual cycle of wtf) rather than in it.

I sighed, and strode deliberately into the dark room to put them in their rightful place.

And then it happened.

Squelch.

A puddle, left over from one of the (what feels like) millions of showers a day my teens and pre-teen take. A puddle, despite being gently and not-so-gently asked, reminded, nudged, nagged to please use the shower mat to dry your feet and if you leave water on the floor please clean it up.

I stood there. One foot wet. The other foot dry. But both feet deeply unhappy, as if the dry one had joined the wet one in empathy, understanding and vicarious trauma.

As I stood there – in shock, annoyance and absolute disbelief – my wet sock soaking up more water and my dry sock soaking up the emotional ramifications of this horror through sheer proximity, I let out a little cry.

I wasn’t crying exactly – but my soul had gone a bit damp.

I feel I should add here that this wasn’t about the sock. It never is, right?

This was about being ignored for the twelve-thousandth time that day.

It was about telling these not-so-small-anymore humans, repeatedly, and with increasing fervour to not leave the floor soaking.

It was about the bedroom windowsills lined with crusty cereal bowls, the immunisations permission slip I’d forgotten to sign, the therapy training I’d purchased but not yet got round to doing, the friend I still hadn’t replied to although I’d responded in my head multiple times, the school email I didn’t really read and have probably therefore forgotten something actually meaningless but nonetheless terribly important to an 11 year old.

It was all of it.

The relentless physical, mental, social, emotional load. The tiny, but significant and demanding details of the day. All coming to a head with an indignantly soggy foot.

I was overwhelmed, unseen, overspent, and carrying so many tiny bits of life stuff under the surface that I cracked – and cried.

When I tell this tale, to friends, to clients, I can laugh at it now. It’s actually kind of funny, in an absurdly human way. But in that moment, stood rooted to that wet spot? I genuinely questioned every life choice I’d ever made.

So, take this as a small, squelchy love letter to anyone who’s ever lost it over something ‘silly’. Because this wasn’t silly, not really. It was just the sock that broke the camel’s back.

And if today, you had a wet sock moment? I see you. I really see you. And I hope for you (and for myself) that all your days to come contain dry, clean, fluffy socks.

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Thanks for reading. If something in this piece stirred something in you, or you’re wondering what it might be like to explore these themes in therapy, you’re welcome to reach out. I offer sessions in-person at the therapy and counselling centre I run in Cheshire, and a limited amount of online sessions across the UK. You can find out more by heading to Insightful Life – Therapy & Counselling Centre