Connection Is Medicine: You Were Never Meant to Do This Alone

My washer AND dryer are broken. This means I am heading to the laundromat once a week until we can afford to replace them, because…capitalism. Thankfully, my kids are old enough to do their own laundry. We have a bit of a commune going here in our little rabbit warren of a home built in 1947: seven people (when my husband is in the country), two dogs, three cats, and some fish and frogs to boot. Everyone is assigned a laundry day, one person for each day of the week (mine is Tuesday), or there are issues. With the washer and dryer out of commission, laundry now looks like as many folks as are available loading into my minivan once a week, laundry baskets in tow.

We roll into our local laundromat and divide everything into loads of light and dark, filling four massive machines. We learned quickly that even the largest dryers are no match for our towels. The dryers run in 11-minute increments, and even on high heat, after three or four rounds, they are STILL damp. This week I gave the towels their own dryer, praying to the laundromat gods it would make a difference and we would get out of there sooner. For anyone who hasn’t been to a laundromat lately because you have a working washer and dryer at home, I encourage you to send a little prayer of gratitude out into the Universe. Perhaps also keep track of when Mercury is going into retrograde or Aries and Mars are working their fiery magic. Can you say dryer plug outlet fire? But I digress. Let’s save that story for another time.

Back to the laundromat. This may not need to be said outlaid, but laundromats provide an excellent opportunity for people watching. While waiting to add more money to the dryers between those 11-minute increments (why are they made that way when nothing dries in 11 minutes), I found myself eavesdropping and stealing sideways glances at my fellows in “laundromat jail.” My eyes kept wandering to an older gentleman there by himself. He was minding a few loads and putting clean clothes on as they came out of the dryer. First a sweater, then some socks. Between these moments of curiosity, my attention returned to my most recent game addiction, Meowdoku. (Highly recommend.) Just as my phone timer went off to let me know my dryers were going to need another hit, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him approach.

“Are the bath towels in that dryer yours?”

“Yes,” I said, getting up and walking toward them. I assumed he needed me to move something so he could use the machine.

“Oh, I noticed they stopped, and if they’re still damp, I thought I could buy the next ten minutes for you.”

“That is so kind of you,” I said.

“Well, it is,” he replied. “I am a kind guy.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I want to.”

And so I let him. I am not going to lie…I did wonder for a moment what he might want in return. Apparently, my brain needed to run a quick background check on the possibility of someone simply being kind. As he put his card into the machine, I thanked him again, and he began telling me a little about his life. He had lived in California and run a construction business building apartments, with more than fifty employees. He talked about the families who depended on those incomes and the ways he had tried to help with things like school expenses and medical bills.

I found myself thinking that we need more people willing to consider the lives of the people who work for them. I also had a little niggle of worry about whether I was now expected to stand there and have a long conversation. I almost asked, “What brought you north from California?” then thought better of it. My capacity for talking, and sometimes listening, runs low these days. I’m a therapist. I spend a lot of my working hours listening, and sometimes when I’m doing my laundry, I would like to quietly play my little cat game. But there was no demand. I thanked him and went back to my laundry (and the very important level I was trying to beat).

Later, as I folded clothes, I overheard him talking to another woman. He mentioned that he had been evicted. I thought again about the sweater and socks going straight from the dryer onto his body. I don’t know his whole story. I don’t know what that morning meant to him, or what prompted him to offer a few more minutes of drying time to a stranger with an unreasonable quantity of towels. But I found myself wondering whether being able to offer something, and having someone receive it, mattered to him. Whether that small conversation was an opportunity to be heard and seen as someone with a whole life, a history, and kindness to give.

When I went to retrieve those stubborn towels one last time, I thanked him again.

“They’re just right now, aren’t they?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “They’re just right.”

They were still damp.

I took them home and hung them up because I was not putting one more cent into that dryer. But the interaction? That was just right.

I’ve been thinking about the ways care reaches us, and how often my first response is some version of, “Oh, you don’t need to do that.” My mom randomly sends over a lasagna “because it was easy to make a double batch.” My sister drives my 19-year-old kiddo to a doctor’s appointment when they don’t feel well enough to drive, so I don’t have to rearrange my work schedule. My dad helps me build a skunk fence. Yes, a skunk fence. Another story for another time. Apparently, I am collecting those.

With my husband Erik working overseas, these gestures help with the practical reality of having one less adult physically here. They also remind me how many people are part of our lives, paying attention and offering what they can. There are countless other examples, some so ordinary that I could easily move through my day without pausing to recognize how much they hold me up. A lasagna means dinner is handled. A ride means my child gets where they need to go and I can keep my appointments with my clients. Time spent building a fence means I have help with a problem that has become my problem, whether or not I have the time, energy, or particular enthusiasm for dealing with skunks.

These things matter. They make a difference in what I have left at the end of the day.

And yet, even with people I love and trust, I can catch myself wanting to explain why they don’t need to bother. I know they’re busy. I know they have their own expenses and responsibilities. I can get very invested in protecting other people from the inconvenience of caring for me, especially when I’m overwhelmed and don’t know when I’ll have the capacity to return the favor. I’m reminding myself that reciprocity doesn’t have to look like matching lasagnas or an equal number of rides. What we have to give can look different depending on our season of life, and some seasons involve receiving a whole lot more than we can offer. I don’t need to turn my mother’s lasagna into another thing I owe someone. I can be grateful, let dinner be handled, and trust that there will be other seasons. Sometimes this apparently requires an older gentleman in a laundromat to say, quite plainly, “I want to.”

When I say connection is medicine, these are some of the things I mean.

Being noticed. Having someone consider what might make your day a little easier. Sharing a story while the dryers run. Accepting the lasagna without requiring your mother to provide further evidence that making two was, in fact, easy. There is something sacred to me in these ordinary exchanges. We get to participate in each other’s lives. We get to offer what we have, receive what we need, and sometimes discover that the person we assumed needed something from us was actually looking for an opportunity to give.

I know support isn’t equally available to everyone. Family can be complicated, people we love can be far away, and building relationships takes energy that may already be in short supply. I also know how much harder it can be to receive kindness when experience has taught you to look for the strings. I don’t think we need to shame ourselves for that hesitation. I noticed mine standing right there beside the towel dryer. I’m glad I was able to let it go long enough to say yes.

That morning, I also had time with my kids in the car and beside the machines. Time to talk, to be ridiculous, and to marvel a little at the adult humans they are becoming. I can get so focused on getting a task done that I miss the people doing it alongside me. Would I prefer a functioning washer and dryer? Absolutely. Universe, please consider this a formal request. But somewhere between loading the minivan, feeding those machines, playing Meowdoku, and hauling the still-damp towels home, there was this little moment of magic and receiving.

As I begin sharing more here at Connection Is Medicine, this feels like a good place to start. With the everyday ways we show up for each other, the complicated feelings that can come with letting people help, and a reminder I continue to need myself.

You were never meant to do this alone. And if someone wants to buy your towels another ten minutes, you’re allowed to let them.