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There was a time when getting lost was a natural part of life. Before GPS apps and step-by-step directions, we used crumpled maps, vague street signs, and the kindness of strangers. Now, everything is optimized, calculated, and pinned. We’re never really lost—we’re just “rerouting.”

But I miss it.

Last month, I took a weekend trip to a town I’d never been to, and on a whim, I turned off my phone’s navigation. No Google Maps, no Siri. Just intuition, curiosity, and a loose sense of direction. Within ten minutes, I was completely, deliciously lost.

It was a mild panic at first. My mind scrambled for landmarks, street names, anything familiar. But once I stopped trying to “solve” the problem and started observing the world around me, things shifted.

I wandered into a bookshop with creaky wooden floors and handwritten notes on every shelf. I bought a used copy of a novel I’d forgotten I loved. I sat in a park that wasn’t on any “must-visit” list, watched a man teach his kid to ride a bike, and ate an overpriced sandwich from a bakery that smelled like my grandmother’s kitchen.

Getting lost forced me to look around instead of forward. It reminded me how much of life we miss by always knowing exactly where we’re going. The joy of a spontaneous discovery. The thrill of unfamiliar streets. The beauty of not having a plan.

We’ve trained ourselves to fear uncertainty. But uncertainty is where wonder lives. When you don’t know what’s around the corner, you pay attention. You engage. You see.

I eventually found my way back, of course. But for a few hours, I wasn’t following a route—I was making one.

So the next time your phone dies, or a road is closed, or you find yourself turned around in a new place, pause before panicking. Breathe. Look up. You might not know where you are, but maybe that’s exactly where you’re meant to be.

Some of the best parts of life begin where the map ends.

There’s a strange kind of serenity that settles over a laundromat after midnight. The humming machines, the rhythmic clatter of zippers in the dryers, the soft glow of fluorescent lights—everything slows down. It’s one of the few places where time feels like it bends.

I stumbled into this habit accidentally, after a late-night craving for clean sheets during a heatwave. Since then, I’ve become a regular in the after-hours crowd—though “crowd” is generous. Most nights, it’s just me, a couple of students folding socks with headphones in, and the occasional night shift worker napping against a dryer.

There’s something meditative about the process. Sorting clothes by color. Measuring out detergent. The low whir of the spin cycle. In a world obsessed with efficiency and noise, the laundromat offers quiet repetition, a kind of mindfulness by default. No one’s rushing you. No one’s watching. You can be as methodical or chaotic as you like.

I’ve written poems on lint-covered receipts. Read chapters of books I’d been meaning to start for months. Made awkward eye contact with strangers over mismatched socks. Once, I saw a man in a tuxedo washing just one shirt—no explanation, no small talk. He folded it crisply, placed it in a garment bag, and walked out.

There’s an unspoken agreement between the few of us there: we respect the silence, the solitude. Some people look lost in thought; others look like they’ve finally found space to think.

In a city that never stops spinning, these pockets of stillness are rare. They don’t look like much—a row of beige machines and cracked plastic chairs—but they hold a kind of magic.

At midnight, under buzzing lights, surrounded by the scent of lavender detergent and distant radio static, you’re reminded that even the most mundane rituals can become sacred.

I’ve started to think of laundromats less as errands and more as sanctuaries. A place to reset—not just your laundry, but your mind.

So if you ever find yourself wide awake and restless, skip the scroll and take a trip to your nearest 24-hour laundromat. Wash a load. Fold it slowly. You might leave lighter than you came.