There’s a laundromat near my apartment in Nishi-Ogikubo that smells like steam and soap, like memories just out of the dryer. I go there every Sunday morning with a tote full of clothes, a can of Georgia coffee, and no intention of speaking to anyone. It’s my soft ritual. My built-in silence. My therapy that costs 600 yen.

I’m 38, single, and I work in publishing. I live alone in a third-floor walk-up with wooden floors that creak like old knees. The apartment isn’t much, but the light’s good in the mornings. I have three houseplants I try not to kill and a rack of striped shirts I wear on rotation. My days are full of edits and deadlines, but Sundays are for clean things—sheets, socks, moods.

The laundromat is small and square and always a little too warm. The dryers line the back wall like obedient sentries. I sit on the vinyl bench by the folding table and sip my coffee while my clothes tumble into roundness again. Outside, people are rushing to brunch or errands. Inside, time softens.

It’s funny how the most mundane things become sacred when they’re yours.

I started coming here regularly after the pandemic, when so many of us began noticing how we lived. For a long time, I did laundry in my building’s basement, but the tiny machine never dried anything properly. During lockdown, I found this place and never looked back.

What I love most isn’t the cleaning—it’s the choreography. Folding a bath towel just right. Matching socks like puzzle pieces. Pulling warm t-shirts into neat rectangles. There’s a quiet pride in that. A rhythm. A control over something small in a world that rarely listens.

Sometimes I spot the same people: the student with pink headphones, the young mother folding onesies, the old man who always washes on Thursdays but comes in on Sundays just to read the paper. We don’t talk, but we keep each other company.

In Tokyo, we are experts at shared solitude.

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There’s something meditative about the machines. The hum. The spin. The little portholes of warmth. I stare into them the way other people stare into bonfires. It soothes me. Maybe that’s why I’ve never bought my own washer—I don’t want to lose the ritual. The leaving of the house. The vending machine coffee. The hour carved out just for being.

I know some friends think it’s strange. “You still go to a laundromat?” they ask, like it’s a downgrade. But for me, it’s a kind of upgrade. I’ve turned it into a ceremony. I bring a magazine. I wear perfume. I fold slowly. I walk home lighter.

I don’t need a spa. I just need quarters.

There’s a Japanese word, kurashi (暮らし), which means “everyday living.” Not just existing, but the feeling of it. That’s what this is. A small, intentional life. A habit that shapes me as much as I shape the linen.

In recent years, I’ve noticed more women around me creating these kinds of rituals. A friend goes to the same kissaten every Friday at 8 a.m. to write in her journal. Another walks through Aoyama Cemetery every evening just to clear her head. These aren’t hobbies—they’re survival techniques. Quiet ways to stay soft in a city that can be so sharp.

Maybe that’s what modern therapy looks like in Tokyo. You don’t lie on a couch. You fold your clothes and watch the lint collect in the tray. You let the spin cycle rearrange your head.

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I always leave with everything warm and tight and in its place. There’s a satisfaction in the bag slung over my shoulder, in knowing I cared for my own things. Sometimes I treat myself to a convenience store pastry on the way home, or I stop by the florist and buy a single stem. I place it by the window, next to the detergent.

And then I put everything away. Slowly. With attention.

It makes the rest of the week feel a little more possible.

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By Naomi Fujimoto