My Declaration of Independence

I always wash my dishes as soon as I finish eating. It’s one of those unspoken rules I’ve followed my whole life, not because anyone told me to, but because it seemed like what you’re supposed to do. But one night, I didn’t. I left the dishes in the sink, unwashed, the remnants of the meal staring back at me. And for the first time, I sat with the discomfort of breaking my own rule.

At first, it felt wrong. That creeping sense of disorder, of not having done “the right thing,” sat heavy on my chest. But slowly, that discomfort gave way to something unexpected—a quiet, almost imperceptible sense of relief. I had done nothing extraordinary, but in leaving the dishes untouched, I’d reclaimed a sliver of my time, my energy, my life.

Freedom, I realized, comes from the smallest acts of refusal. Like Calcutta says in Frosinone : “Non ho lavato i piatti con lo Svelto e questa è la mia libertà" (I didn’t wash the dishes with Svelto, and this is my freedom - Svelto is a brand of dishwashing detergent.)

He chose one day not to wash the dishes. That was his freedom.

It’s absurd on the surface, but that’s exactly what makes it profound. Freedom doesn’t have to mean changing the world I guess. Sometimes, it’s just about changing how you move within it.

We live in a world built on invisible rules. Be productive. Be efficient. Be useful. Answer your emails quickly. Fold your clothes immediately. Show up on time. Keep moving. Keep going. It’s not that these rules are bad—they help keep life functional—but they also quietly swallow you whole. Without noticing, you become a person who lives to meet expectations, even the ones that don’t really matter.

That’s why the smallest acts of rebellion can feel so monumental. They’re not just defiance for its own sake—they’re reminders of your autonomy. Maybe for you, it’s leaving the laundry unfolded, not out of laziness, but because you’re tired of being a machine. Maybe it’s walking home the long way, letting the cold air or the warm streetlights stretch out the edges of your day. Maybe it’s eating cereal for dinner—not because you can’t cook, but because you refuse to turn your life into a performance, even for yourself.

These acts don’t need to make sense to anyone else. That’s their beauty. They belong to you. They’re a quiet way of saying, I exist outside of what is expected of me.

And yes, the dishes will still be there tomorrow. The laundry won’t fold itself. The emails will pile up. But none of those things define you. They are tasks—endless, recurring, unrelenting—and they will wait. Life, on the other hand, doesn’t. That’s why it matters when you leave the bed unmade or wear mismatched socks. Not because these acts change the world, but because they remind you that the world doesn’t own you.

We’ve been conditioned to equate order with virtue. Clean spaces, organized calendars, neatly tied loose ends—they make us feel in control. But sometimes, the greatest clarity comes from stepping outside that structure. Standing barefoot in the kitchen, eating something straight from the container. Letting the notifications go unanswered for just a little while longer. Letting yourself be human instead of productive.

These small rebellions won’t solve the chaos of life, but they create a moment of pause, a space to remember that you are not just a series of tasks.

You’re not your inbox, your to-do list, or your ability to keep up.

You’re a person, alive in a world that’s constantly asking for more.