Lessons from my washing machine

On when to stick it out, and when to let go

Our washing machine stopped working last week. It would begin to fill with water but then, after a couple of minutes, it would just stop. So my husband and I did what one normally does in that situation…we took to YouTube. After patiently listening to many different men show us how to clean filters, empty hoses, check drums and connections, we had to admit that we couldn’t fix it on our own. So we moved onto the next step that most people take when faced with a faulty appliance…we called a repairman.

After waiting nine days for him to fit us in, and after two trips to a laundrette run by perhaps the rudest and most hostile woman I have ever encountered, spending £75 in the process (when the hell did laundrettes get so expensive?!), the repairman came yesterday. I handed over another £120 for him to tell us that it would be too expensive to fix, and that we’d have been better off going straight to buying a new one. I explained that I’ve been trying not to jump to immediately replacing things when they break but instead see if they can be repaired, for economical and environmental reasons. Shouldn’t we always see if we can salvage what we’ve already got?

He nodded, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his blackened hand. “Yeah, it’s a good reason to try to fix things but, honestly, the way things are made these days, if you aren’t able to fix it yourself you’re often better off just buying a new one unless you know it’s something very minor.”

After he left, and after we had forked over another few hundred pounds ordering a brand new washing machine, I began thinking about what he said, and how it related to the other thing that’s been on my mind a lot lately: my career.

When I left my job as an NHS midwife a few years ago, having been through the winger (pardon the pun), I felt truly lost. If clinical care was no longer an option for me, what would I do? I’d invested so much time, energy, emotion, money, and effort into becoming a midwife, and to no longer practice, within only four years of qualifying, felt like a humiliating defeat. Even when I knew, deep down, that it wasn’t my fault - that it was the rigid systems, understaffing, and terrible management that had made me leave, because I was no longer willing to stand by and watch people be harmed by the professionals and institutions meant to care for them - a lifetime of conditioning to ‘cope’ no matter what is thrown at you is hard to shake off. I had been taught to fix, not flee. But flee I did, for I knew that if I stayed it would destroy me more than it already had.

So after a few detours while I healed, here I am, 45 years old and starting over again. I officially removed myself from the Nursing & Midwifery Council register in May, built a new website, and launched a new business as a doula, coach, and freelance journalist. It’s not really new though; it’s a return, a homecoming. Aside from the coaching, I have done this all before, you see. Before I became a midwife, I was a doula and a writer and I absolutely loved both. While raising two small children, I supported other women, was heavily involved in feminist activism, had a small freelance editing job, and was writing almost daily. It was my dream set-up in so many ways. The problem, of course, was that none of it paid very much, if at all.

I was doing important work. Hard work that was actually impacting people’s lives and, in the case of my children, building and fundamentally shaping them. I was not just wiping bums and holding hands, I was marching in the streets, writing political missives, speaking up for the voiceless, advocating for vulnerable women and helping them pick up the pieces after difficult births, ensuring they felt cared for, heard, and respected. Meanwhile, I didn’t feel respected by society at all; written off as ‘just a mum’ who chose to be poorly paid because of the work I did. And I genuinely was broke. Earning far less than the minimum wage, trying to live as a family of four in London on my husband’s salary, often putting groceries on a credit card that we had no way of repaying at the end of the month. It was exhausting and demoralising, trying to keep our heads above water.

Soon, as often happens with matters involving money, I became resentful. I was tired of trying to convince people to pay me a decent wage, of trying to command respect for my invisible labour, the hard graft I performed day in and day out, with little renumeration or recognition. Even in feminist spaces I often felt excluded, not part of the childfree-career-women gang that seemed to run all the events, with little thought given to accessibility and inclusion for those with children or limited financial means, disabled people, women of colour, trans women, and other groups that have historically been excluded from ‘white feminism’. We gave feedback, offering to work alongside them to help make their events more inclusive, but we were largely ignored. And we were largely mothers. Reminding people that feminism isn’t only about equal pay, pinkification, and porn doesn’t go down so well, it turns out.

Finally, after a time, I grew tired of trying to fix things and decided to quit. To jack it all in and turn to a career that I think I always knew, deep down, I would not stay in long-term, simply because it afforded me a steady paycheque, however meagre, and some modicum of respect. Health care professionals are generally well-regarded by the public (or used to be, before the Tories drove the health system into the ground) and recognised for their knowledge and skills. And if I’m being completely honest, I was desperate for both.

Regardless of whether it was the right decision for the wrong reasons, or the wrong decision for the right reasons, it led me to where I am today. The ups and downs of my career have been difficult to navigate, and I’m definitely a changed woman from the experience, having accumulated many scars along the way, but I am undeniably stronger and wiser too. More sure of who I am, what I want, and what I am no longer willing to accept. I guess I had to go through all that to arrive here, at this place, now. Ready to go back to what I love, but for the right reasons this time, accepting nothing less than what I deserve. If that was the lesson, and if that was the route I had to take to learn it, then I’d say it was worth it, regardless of the pain.

Sometimes it’s worth fixing things that are broken, certainly, but knowing when to walk away and start again is often the bravest and most honest thing we can do.

And now I’m off to hang up the inaugural load of laundry that has just finished spinning in our brand new machine. Paid for by me, because I finally know my worth.