I was nine years old.
My mother had finally had enough.
Cleaning my room was a constant battle growing up. She’d ask. I’d “clean.” And by clean, I mean I’d grab everything in sight and stuff it into the closet. Problem solved. Looks fine. Don’t open that door.
But she always opened the door.
My mother would inspect. She’d look around the room, nod, and then walk straight to the closet. I’d hold my breath. Please don’t. Not the closet.
She’d open it. Everything would tumble out. And she’d say:
“This is not organized.”
She was right. It wasn’t clean. It was contained chaos.
But this time, she did something different. She went in herself. Organized the whole thing — actually organized it. Not my version. Hers.
The shelves made sense. The floor breathed.
And so did I.
I walked into that room and felt something I hadn’t felt before. Not just cleanliness. Something deeper. Like I could finally take a full breath. Like the room was actually mine. Like I had arrived somewhere.
THE MOMENT
A few days later, my best friend Shawn came over. We were playing with a remote control car — just doing what boys do, taking it apart, putting it back together, making engine noises with our mouths.
Then the doorbell rang. His dad was there to pick him up, car keys jingling.
Shawn ran downstairs. I left the remote control car on the bed and followed him.
And then — I still don’t know why I did this — I turned to his father and said:
“Do you want to see my room?”
Such a kid thing to say, right? But he was a good sport. He said sure.
We walked upstairs. I opened the door. The room was spotless. You could still see the vacuum lines in the carpet. My mother had done an incredible job.
Except for one thing.
The remote control car. Sitting on my bed.
I looked at it. Looked at him. And I said:
“Sorry for the mess.”
Then I picked up the car and put it on the shelf.
He looked at me with one eyebrow raised. The room was spotless. Not a thing out of place. I could almost see him thinking: My son’s room doesn’t look like this.
But that’s not what stayed with me.
What stayed with me was the feeling. For one moment, I was organized in someone else’s eyes. It didn’t matter that my mother had done all the work. It didn’t matter that I was the same kid who stuffed everything in closets. In that moment, I felt like the kind of person who had an organized room.
That feeling stayed with me for forty years.
THE WANTING
I wasn’t organized. Not even close.
But I wanted to be. So badly that I apologized for a single remote control car on an otherwise spotless bed.
Here’s what I’ve been sitting with lately:
Most people who struggle with organization — with their space, their schedule, their money — aren’t struggling because they don’t care. They’re struggling because they care deeply. The wanting is there. It’s just buried under years of not knowing how to get there.
The wanting is the thing.
Not the system. Not the method. Not the bins or the labels or the color-coded closets.
The wanting is the seed.
THE LONGING
A few weeks ago, I sent an email asking for your stories about organization.
One response stopped me cold.
A lawyer. Finally cracked $200K after years of struggle. Smart. Successful by every external measure.
He wrote me a long email. About his wife’s cancer. About near-bankruptcy. About being rescued by community and family. About finally landing a job that pays well.
And then he wrote this:
“I never feel organized or in control, the way I did when I was single. I know family life is beautiful and rich and never dull, and I am truly grateful for all our blessings, but I long to be like that mother with all the organized closets, for our finances, for our life. I just don’t see a way there.”
I read it three times.
I long to be like that mother with the organized closets.
That’s not about closets. That’s about peace.
He’s not asking for bins and labels. He’s asking for the feeling I had when I walked into my room that day — the one my mother had organized. The feeling of being able to breathe. The feeling of things being in order. The feeling of home.
His income changed. His longing didn’t.
And I don’t think he’s alone. Not by a long shot.
THE PERMISSION
My wife listens to a lot of speakers. Talks, interviews — she’s always got something playing. I can’t keep track of half of them.
But she told me about one that stuck with her.
A woman was talking about organization. She said she’s incredibly organized now. Has been for years.
But she wasn’t always. Far from it.
But one day, when she was young, she did something that looked organized — and one of her mother’s friends happened to see it and said:
“Oh, look — your daughter is so organized.”
That was it.
That one sentence. That external validation. Someone seeing her as organized — even just for a moment — gave her permission to become organized.
And she became an organized person. From that day on. Still is today.
No books. No systems. No YouTube videos. No Marie Kondo.
Just someone believing she could be.
WHAT I’M LEARNING
The wanting is real. It’s deep. And if you’ve ever felt it — even once — you know exactly what I’m talking about.
But the wanting? That’s the seed.
And sometimes — not always, but sometimes — all it takes is permission.
Permission from someone else who sees you differently.
Or permission from yourself.
The wanting is the seed. Permission is the water.
This isn’t really about closets.
It’s about peace.
It’s about the feeling of walking into your life and being able to breathe.
And it’s about the surprising connection I’ve been thinking about for weeks now — between your space, your mind, and your money. I think they’re the same problem wearing different clothes.
More on that next week.
Avraham
Your Financial Coach
P.S. Next week I’m going to tell you about a professional organizer I met. Her house was immaculate. Six kids. Not a Lego on the floor. I asked her if she was always like this. She laughed in my face. What she told me changed how I think about all of this.
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