I didn’t think buying a washing machine would feel like a breakthrough.
It sounds so ordinary. So adult. So… practical.
But for me, it felt like something shifted.
One of the things on my 2026 desire list was simple: a fully furnished home. Not for aesthetics alone. Not for Instagram. But for comfort. For ease. For that quiet pride of walking into your space and knowing it works for you.
For a long time, I told myself I was “lazy” when it came to chores. Especially laundry. I would postpone it until the pile stared at me like an accusation. I’d negotiate with myself. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe when the sun is out. Maybe when I feel like it.
But here’s the irony.
I might procrastinate doing laundry, but I’m the biggest critic of how it’s done.
If I ever got someone to wash for me, I’d notice everything. The way the clothes were scrubbed. The way the colors were separated. Whether the detergent smell was too strong. Whether my delicate pieces were treated delicately.
Lazy? Maybe.
Particular? Absolutely.
It’s a strange contradiction, avoiding a task while also caring deeply about how it’s executed.
And then one random day, I woke up and thought: There’s no way I’m going to keep bending over buckets and risking back pain for the next five to ten years.
There’s no way I’m going to rely on a mama fua who might increase her rates unexpectedly, not show up when needed or wash my clothes in a way that leaves me quietly dissatisfied.
There’s no way I’m going to keep postponing something that could actually make my life easier.
The thought didn’t come with worry.
It was calm. Decisive. Almost non-negotiable.
So I did what any slightly obsessive, overthinking entrepreneur would do.
I calculated the ROI.
If I bought a washing machine and factored in water, electricity, and basic maintenance, the cost would equal roughly four to five months of paying someone else to do my laundry.
Four to five months. And the machine could last five to ten years.
When I looked at it that way, it stopped feeling like a luxury and started feeling like logic.
Of course, people will argue that with a mama fua, everything is handled. Or that taking clothes to a laundry place is more convenient.
But where I stay, physically taking clothes out is more exhausting than just doing it myself.
Does that logic make sense?
Not entirely.
But it’s less about effort and more about energy. I love my space. I like doing things in my own time. I don’t enjoy unnecessary interaction. The waiting. The small talk. The back-and-forth.
Maybe I’m an introvert disguised as a business owner. Maybe I just value peace. Either way, the idea of having a machine inside my space felt… freeing.
The weather had been gloomy for days. Laundry was piling up. The universe seemed to be testing my resolve.
And I just decided.
I’m getting a washing machine.
Not next month. Not “when things are better.”
Now.
I won’t even lie and say it was perfectly budgeted. It wasn’t. It was within range, yes. But it was still an impulse in some way. An informed impulse.
I had been thinking about it for a long time. It wasn’t a random thought born that morning. It had been sitting in the back of my mind, waiting for permission.
That day, I gave it permission.
I chose a twin tub machine because that’s what was within reach. Not the fanciest. Not the most automated. But enough. Practical. Reliable. And I had also heard some good reviews on TikTok, being a professional comment reader, haha.
And honestly, if there was a machine for everything in life, I would probably own it.
I hate traffic. I hate waiting. I hate inefficiency.
Sometimes I joke that if I had the means, I’d own a private jet just to avoid the madness of moving and traffic jams.
I’d have a driver. A personal assistant. Managers handling stressful logistics while I simply exist and create.
It sounds dramatic, but it’s rooted in something real, I value ease.
I don’t think ease should be reserved for “later.” I don’t think comfort is something you earn only after suffering.
So when I bought that washing machine, it wasn’t just about laundry. It was about choosing ease where I could.
What made it even more significant was this:
For once, I didn’t spiral into, “Where will next month’s bills come from?”
I saw the need. I saw the logic. And I moved.
No overthinking. No panic. No scarcity.
That’s when I realized something had shifted inside me.
For years, I operated with a quiet fear that every big purchase meant danger. That money leaving meant lack. That spending meant instability.
This time, it felt different.
I trusted that future me would handle future bills. I trusted that the same God/Universe who provided for this purchase would provide again.
That trust alone felt like growth.
Of course, buying online in Kenya is its own adventure. People are skeptical, and rightfully so. Scams exist. Fake pages exist. Deals that are too good to be true usually are. But as someone who sells online myself, I understand the game.
Details matter. Fine print matters. Communication style matters.
The line between legit and scam can be blurry, but it’s there if you pay attention.
So I did my research. I checked prices across different websites. Compared specs. Looked at reviews. Not obsessively, but intentionally. And then I found my bargaining chip.
I wasn’t about “kugongwa.”
My budget was tight. Tight like a belt on kanono. And yes, no body shaming intended, I’m also working on my own weight journey, so that metaphor was personal.
I reached out to multiple vendors. Weighed their responses. Assessed their tone. Narrowed it down to two.
The difference between them? 600 shillings.
Six hundred. It may seem small, but when your budget is tight, 600 matters. I chose the cheaper one, obviously.
Victory, right?
Not quite.
They told me the 7kg twin tub I wanted wasn’t available. Instead, they offered an 8.5kg twin tub upgrade for a thousand price difference.
I paused for a minute and thought to proceed with the other vendor. Upgrades usually come with hidden costs. But this one felt genuine.
And honestly, 8.5kg made more sense for my laundry needs.
So I agreed.
I avoided the chaos of the CBD. The noise. The bargaining theatrics. The overwhelming energy. Instead, I waited.
Patience is not my strongest trait, especially when I’ve already decided on something.
But I waited.
And then the rider called. He was downstairs. In that moment, my heart raced in a way that surprised me. It wasn’t just excitement. It was disbelief.
When I saw the machine being carried in, when it was placed inside my space, when I was taught how to use it, it hit me.
I own this.
This is mine. Not borrowed. Not temporary. Not a maybe one day …
Mine.
It felt dramatic to think this, but it genuinely felt like a generational curse was lifted, if you’re into that type of thing.
If you understand what it means to grow up seeing certain things as luxuries reserved for “other people.” If you know what it feels like to upgrade your own life in ways your younger self couldn’t imagine. It felt like that.
A quiet breaking.
A new standard being set.
I covered my machine carefully. Protection. Respect. Gratitude.
And I whispered a prayer I didn’t even plan:
May I never lack the abundance to pay for water and electricity to keep using it. May maintenance never be a burden. May I always have the means to sustain what I acquire. And may I find a fully catered-for space one day, a home where it fits perfectly, where there’s a designated laundry corner that feels intentional and abundant.
This washing machine isn’t just an appliance.
It’s evidence.
Evidence that I am growing. Evidence that my mindset is shifting. Evidence that I can choose convenience without guilt. Evidence that I don’t have to struggle just because I’m used to struggling.
It also made me reflect on something deeper.
For years, I would dream of big things, the fully furnished home, the soft life, the structured abundance.
But I would delay small upgrades that could move me closer to that reality.
I would wait for “when I have more.”
This time, I didn’t wait. I moved with what I had. I acted like someone who believes she will continue to have. And that’s different.
There’s something powerful about making a decision from abundance instead of fear. Not reckless abundance. Not irresponsible spending. But grounded, researched, intentional abundance.
The kind that says, “This makes sense long term.” The kind that sees value beyond immediate cost. The kind that trusts the future.
I still laugh at the irony.
The girl who procrastinates laundry now owns a washing machine. But maybe I was never lazy. Maybe I just hated inefficiency. Maybe I didn’t want to waste energy doing something the hard way when there was a smarter option. Maybe I was waiting to afford ease without guilt.
And now?
When I load my clothes into that twin tub and hear it spin, it sounds like progress. It sounds like discipline meeting comfort. It sounds like a new chapter. It’s a small thing in the grand scheme of life. But it’s my small thing.
And sometimes, milestones don’t look like headlines.
Sometimes they look like appliances humming in your corner. Sometimes they look like choosing yourself. Sometimes they look like believing you’ll be okay next month.
I don’t know what the rest of the year will look like.
I don’t know what upgrades are next.
But I know this:
I’m no longer afraid to make my life easier. I’m no longer stuck in the mindset of “survive first, comfort later.”
I’m building a life where comfort and responsibility coexist. And it started with a twin tub washing machine on a gloomy day.
Who knew?
If this is what abundance feels like in small doses, I’m ready for more.
And may I always have the courage to choose it.
