When I wake up, I make the bed. I complete the task without too much thought. Straightening the sheets and squaring the edges helps me to focus through the morning fog. It’s my first accomplishment, a kindness I give to myself and an offering I’ll always need: a clean slate. Even if it’s still dark, I shake out the duvet, then fluff and arrange the pillows, just so.
My mornings weren’t always like this. Growing up in Queens, I didn’t want to make my bed and I couldn’t see any need for daily routines. I preferred to leave that twin mattress in apartment 2D on 162nd Street just as I left it. After all, I’d spent all night making an arrangement ideal for the way I slept. I’d warmed my pillows, which now ran north-to-south, pinched at the middle like farfalle, rather than straight across the top. I’d sculpted the brown wool blanket and denim comforter — warmth enough for a perpetually cold kid — into a cavernous pocket with space for me and my one knee pulled to the side. Why would I undo work so well done? In the fuzzy logic of adolescence, I believed I could simply return at the end of the day and slip like a dream back into the space I’d formed the night before.
Much later, when I worked in high-end restaurants, I would fold hundreds of napkins each week, each one perfectly aligned. But I hadn’t made my bed in years. My personal life was in disarray. I was grasping for anything I could do to get it back under control, when someone suggested I try a simple routine. Making your bed, they said, can become a daily victory. Counting and collecting small wins through ordinary acts like this can give you something to like and respect about yourself.
Soon I made bed-making a serious habit, with the same attention to detail I brought to my work: sheets hand-smoothed and crisp; pillowcases pulled tight; pillows leaning against the headboard, stacked in pairs; duvet draped evenly, puffed just enough for left objects to leave indentations, the top edge folded to leave a six-inch demarcation, just enough handle to pull it back at bedtime. The bare minimum, to me, but it glows when I look at it.
It’s a painful truth that you can’t just return to the idylls of yesterday, as I once believed about my tousled sheets and rumpled pillows. But you can wake up and start fresh, giving yourself one less omission to regret, one more comfort to look forward to. After a few quick folds, and a few short fluffs, I have a made bed, a fresh place where I know I can return tonight and recover.
This story appears in the April 2025 issue of Deseret Magazine. Learn more about how to subscribe.