I Wanted to Change the World. So I Did the Dishes.

There was a time when I thought I’d be famous by thirty. A bestselling author, possibly a misunderstood genius. Maybe a misunderstood genius and a bestselling author — ideally interviewed in a soft-lit room, sipping espresso, while someone asked me, “How do you do it?” and I replied with modesty honed in the mirror for hours.

But here I am, a few years past thirty, staring at a sink full of spaghetti-crusted dishes and wondering if the dishwasher is judging me.

You see, I had plans. Big ones. Plans that involved revolutionizing thought, flipping social norms on their heads, and maybe buying a small but tasteful house in Tuscany. I would write words so sharp they’d cut through complacency like a Japanese knife through a tomato. I’d inspire people. I’d shift paradigms. I’d finally learn what a paradigm was.

Instead, I learned how to scrub dried cheese off a casserole dish with nothing but the will to live and a Scotch-Brite pad. Which, in its own way, might be a metaphor for life. You think you’re crafting a magnum opus — but really, you’re just elbow-deep in hot water, trying to figure out who used three spoons for one bowl of cereal.

But let’s rewind.

There’s a particular illusion sold in bulk at every school, graduation ceremony, and TED Talk: You can change the world. We hear it so often it curdles into cliché, like milk left out too long. Change the world. Save the planet. Reinvent the wheel. (Apparently, the current wheel is passé.) Nobody tells you that “changing the world” might look less like a standing ovation and more like returning your mother’s call, composting your banana peel, or learning to say, “You’re right,” without internally combusting.

The world doesn’t change with grand speeches. It changes quietly, when someone chooses not to snap back in anger. When someone takes the bus instead of the car. When someone apologizes. When someone listens. When someone — let’s say it — does the dishes without being asked.

Now, I’m not saying domestic chores are revolutionary. But I am saying there’s something deeply human about the slow, unnoticed work of care. And perhaps we’ve confused visibility with value. Maybe we don’t need more heroes on podiums. Maybe we need more people who sweep the floor without expecting applause.

Sometimes I fantasize about writing that Great Book again. But the words come slower now, more tentative, like they too are a bit tired from trying to prove something. And that’s okay. Because maybe the real writing — the true, unpublished manuscript of a life — happens in those in-between moments. The awkward laughter at a dinner party. The way you cover your friend with a blanket when they fall asleep on the couch. The texts that say “Just thinking of you,” and mean it.

I used to think wisdom would come in lightning bolts. Now I think it arrives more like a cat: quietly, unexpectedly, and usually when you’re in the middle of something else.

So no, I haven’t changed the world. But I did the dishes. And maybe tomorrow I’ll do them again. Because small acts of care are still acts of rebellion in a world addicted to spectacle. Because the planet doesn't need another influencer. It needs fewer coffee cups left in the sink.

And who knows? Maybe I’ll still end up in that soft-lit interview chair one day, espresso in hand.

But if they ask me “How did you do it?”, I’ll probably smile and say, “Start by rinsing the pan right after you use it. Trust me — it saves a lot of grief later.”