In 1999, my bride and I were newlyweds living in an apartment complex with no washer and dryer. We’d carry our clothes over to the laundromat, sit together while things ran, and just talk.
One afternoon I folded something and she looked at me and said, “You didn’t fold that right.”
What do you mean I didn’t fold that right? It’s folded.
“No, there’s a right way to fold it.”
There is? This is how I was taught. This is the right way.
“That’s not the right way. My way is the right way.”
Okay. Why is your way the right way?
“Because it is.”
We’d met and married in about nine months. We were still figuring each other out. I was twenty years old and probably defensive about it, because what do you mean I’m wrong? I’m not wrong. I had one context for how folding worked and it was the only one I’d ever known. But she had a different context and it was the only one she’d ever known too.
Neither of us was wrong. We just hadn’t compared notes yet.
It took a few rounds. But eventually she explained why she liked it done her way, and I realized I didn’t care enough about folding to make it a hill to die on. So I started folding her way. Twenty-seven years later it’s muscle memory. I don’t even think about it anymore.
Here’s what I’ve learned since that laundromat.
We both wanted the same thing. We wanted the laundry folded. That was never the argument. The argument was about how. And the moment we both committed to the what — the thing that actually mattered — the how became something we could figure out together. We could give each other grace on the method because we agreed on the mission.
That’s true in a marriage. It’s true at work. It’s true in any room where two people are trying to get something done and they’re stuck arguing about technique instead of agreeing on the destination.
Get clear on the what. The how will work itself out.
Twenty-seven years of folding laundry. Still figuring out the how. Never once lost sight of the what.
David Willis 