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If you gathered every shoelace you have ever worn. From the first stiff white ones your mum tied in little loops for you to the fraying black ones you pull tight on your trainers now. Every single one. Every strand.

You throw them in the wash. You let the water hit them. Soap and spin. You wait. You think when it is done they will be clean. Simple. Straight. Easy.

You pull them out. They are clean. Smelling like nothing. Like fresh air after rain. You hold them. And the first knot hits you. Not one knot. Not a few. All of them. Tangled. Twisted. Every lace fighting its own way, looping, doubling back, knotted to fuck.

And that is life. That is your life. That is trauma. You can wash yourself. Scrub yourself. Tidy yourself. Make yourself shiny and presentable. You can try to remove the stains. You can try to make the outside smooth. But the knots remain.

They are inside you. Twisted around moments, memories, losses, betrayals, the way someone looked at you and never let go. They tighten without warning. Some loosen for a breath. Some tangle more when you move. Some are so tight you cannot touch them without pain.

You look at those laces and you think maybe you will give up. Maybe you will cut them. But then you realise you cannot cut your life. You cannot cut your history. The knots are part of the length. They are part of the thread. They are proof that you lived. That you survived. That you tried.

So you sit. You untangle one loop at a time. You trace each twist. You hold it in your hand. You breathe into it. You let it open slowly. Some knots will never fully come apart. Some will tighten again tomorrow. But the work matters. Because in each untangled piece you find a small space where the lace is free. Where the weight eases. Where your hand can move without fear of snapping the thread.

And one day maybe you will tie them together again. Not perfectly. Not neatly. Not like they were when you were a child. But you will tie them yourself.

And that will be enough.